


More Than Kin

by Idris388



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adulthood, Coming of Age, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence, Pursuit of Happiness, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-06-23 18:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15612519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idris388/pseuds/Idris388
Summary: The Next Generation write their own histories, and learn what it is to be human.(Hugo writes a book.)





	1. No Man is an Island

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my attempt at a Next Generation fiction, which basically consists of a series of character one-shots that eventually weave together. Eventually, they will culminate in Hugo drinking tea, eating scones and fulfilling his lifelong dream of writing a book. (He's not the only one with a happy ending either.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own a cat, a reindeer sweater or the White Album by The Beatles. Sadly, I don't own these characters either.

_Lily_

She wakes up in her brother's flat with absolutely no idea how she got there.

The rim of the bin is pressed right up next to her face, but there's no garbage bag inside. He must have forgotten to put one in, and that makes her laugh because he always was so careful, so meticulous, so thorough; it's odd and ironic that he would forget that detail.

Her clothes are neatly folded and there's fresh coffee in the pot, which means that he's been up and about recently. The room smells of lemon cologne, and old books, and fabric softener. He has smelled like that since the age of ten.

She doesn't want to see him.

She's pulled on her dress and her little cardigan and her shoes, tall and sparkly and graceful (because without them, she feels a little less powerful, less graceful, less bright). She takes a swig of coffee from a random mug and feels in her pockets for her cigarettes, but her fingers close over empty air.

Apparently, although he forgot to line the bin, her brother is as systematically careful as always.

She pulls her hair (it's a mess) up into a bun, a few red tendrils creeping down over her ears and face, and is halfway to the front door when she hears the voice.

"Lily?"

The voice is familiar, and behind it are years and years of love and kindness and bickering and everything that's good, but now, it just sounds weary.

Still, his spellwork is better than hers (always has been), and his reflexes infinitely quicker (damn the sport that is Quidditch) and if she tries to run now, he will catch her before she is gone three steps.

Instead, she turns resignedly and flashes him a smile that is undecipherable, even to her. "Hey, Al."

Albus, for one, seems unable to respond. "Y-you…I…we-"

"Are you really stuttering?"

Her voice is cocky and flippant and something in her head tells her that she has no right to talk to her older brother this way, but those times are long, long gone and so she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. (And Merlin, does it feel good, because even hung over and messed up, she's tall in her sparkling heels, and dressed to die for, and she looks  _gorgeous,_ and knows it too, and looks down on him like a goddess).

Albus seems to have regained some of his composure and (to her annoyance) does not look at all intimidated by her.

"What are you doing here?"

"Not sure," she shoots back. "I was just leaving, in fact."

And with that, she turns to go, spinning on her heel, and she's about to march out steadily in her tall, tall shoes and slam the door like a grown-up, independent woman, and it's going to feel  _fantastic_ , but he's faster, and jabs his wand at the door and it slams in her face instead, her dramatic walk-out spoiled by her slow speed.

"I'd like to go, Albus."

"Well, I'd like an explanation as to why you showed up on my doorstep at three in the morning, still drunk and singing horrendously out of tune."

Albus pours himself a mug of coffee. Lily shrugs. "I went to a party. I was drunk. I came here."

"Why did you come here?"

"Buggered if I know. Can I go now?"

"Why? Don't you want to spend some time with your brother?" Albus asks in a way that is almost mean and Lily feels a spark of recognition.

"Not really."

"Well, that's just-"

"I mean, I have two brothers, and all they ever do is tell me how I'm a terrible person who's ruining her life and breaking her mother's heart. I'd rather not today, thanks."

"Lily-"

"And don't steal my cigarettes in future."

"Lily-"

But Albus is still holding the coffee mug in both hands and his wand is on the kitchen counter and Lily notices, with her sharp eyes and she spins promptly and turns the door handle and before Albus can do anything, she's gone, without a single glance back towards him.

* * *

They don't hear from her for three months.

* * *

When they do finally find out where she is, it isn't from her.

Albus opens the newspaper one morning and almost spits his coffee back out. There is a bold, black headline, in damning capital letters, that reads,  **'Youngest Potter Child Finally Snaps?'**

Underneath, there is a picture of his sister, his baby sister, although it isn't the baby sister he remembers. She is surrounded by people (Albus thinks he recognizes Miriam Nott and Alexa Dalton, but the harsh glare and darkness combined make it impossible for him to be sure) and clearly intoxicated. She is leaning heavily on the arm of a nondescript boy, her jeans are ripped and covered in grass stains and stains of other substances that Albus doesn't want to think about, alike.

She has a middle finger up resolutely towards the camera, but it is her face that Albus is staring at. Her skin is chalky white, completely so, her freckles almost black in colouring against the background. Her eyes are rimmed by red and black that has nothing to do with mascara, big and haunted and deep-set like they never were in childhood.

Albus has seen and learnt enough in his life to recognize the marks of a drug addict.

He reaches for his phone and calls his father.

Her father isn't Head of the Auror Department for nothing, and a few weeks into her solitude, she senses someone following her.

But  _screw them_ , because she's eighteen now, and legal, and she has the two most brilliant brothers ever to grace the halls of Hogwarts. She bets they regret teaching her all their tricks now, because she essentially vanishes off the face of the planet.

She evades all the Aurors that Harry sends after her, and reads the newspapers cover to cover every day, noting each advertisement, every plea, all the times when her cousins and aunts and uncles have put notices in the paper.

She notes that Al and James never do. Sometimes, she thinks she sees one of them in the corner of her eye. But they're always gone before they are fully there, so she brushes it off. She's probably imagining it.

She drinks and parties and sleeps around and goes wild and it feels like living, to some degree. Gone is the little girl who begged her grandmother for biscuits and tailed around after her older cousins; replaced instead with a woman who is free and young (and gives her body to whoever she likes, whoever has the nicest face that night, but she doesn't think that's such a bad thing.)

One night, she falls, drunk, and hits her head. Or, so Jemma Mackey tells her afterwards. She only remembers the blinding pain, but that too, is a dulled memory, cushioned by the alcohol. She doesn't remember coming to (according to some of her cohort, she went off with Sean Reece, one of James' mates from school, and didn't come back until late afternoon the next day).

She does remember (only slightly) skin on skin and laughter and sweat and sheets and warmth and  _feeling_.

She remembers a weight leaving the bed and not returning. She remembers something warm and wet running down her face (she did hit her head, but she doesn't remember seeing what colour it was, so it could just have been water. Or tears.) She does remember vaguely running out into the street, the bare pavement scraping her feet.

After that is all blank. She wakes up in a bed the next morning, unlike so many other mornings, her wound healed, her clothes folded neatly, a bin next to the bed (and that feels so familiar). She smells lemon, faintly, on her clothes, but that, too, is probably her imagination.

* * *

The next time Lily goes out, it is to Abraham Malfoy's 19th. He is Scorpius' cousin (Lily remembers Scorpius, even though she has not seen him for many months), but Scorpius is noticeably absent. Abraham looks nothing like Scorpius – blue eyes rather than grey, and darker hair than the trademark Malfoy white-blond.

She doesn't think he is particularly good-looking, but when he pushes her up against the door and kisses her and his hand inches nearer and nearer to the bottom of her dress, she lets him; whispers words of encouragement in his ear.

There are other people there, of course, but most of them are drunk or so far gone that the only person looking in their direction is the DJ. "Ignore him," Abraham breathes into her ear. And she does.

But just as his hand reaches under her skirt, she feels him grunt, and then he flies away from her. The room goes completely silent (really completely, because the DJ has disappeared.) and someone is standing in the doorway and it's a moment before Lily fully registers who it is. His expression is furious, and his stance means business and he is fast approaching her with an unforgiving look on his face. The crowd parts before him like the red sea and she does not know whether it is because he looks like he could murder someone or because of the lightning scar on his forehead.

"Fuck."

She turns and tries to run, but his hand is around her wrist; his voice is calling her name.

"Let go," she orders, but this is one of the two people who laugh when she gives them orders, laughs in a way that even her brothers would never do.

He doesn't let go, but she didn't really think he would, and now, she just feels trapped.

* * *

She refuses to come out of her room for a week. She slouches about in big jumpers, and eats chocolate ice cream and  _doesn't_   _care_. It feels more natural than she would have imagined.

Some days, the cravings are so bad that she wants to scream aloud. But the locks on the doors of the house are strong, and somebody has taken her wand and she can only lie on the floor and cry and cry and cry.

This isn't the best way to rehabilitate, but it's the only way her parents know how. Things are going wrong with her body.

Her skin is flaky. Her wrists are thinner. Her period has stopped coming. She counts the days.

Her cousins come by – Vic, Louis, Fred, Lucy, Teddy – but she won't speak to any of them. She's angry at them, she realizes after a while, because they only care about her now that something is wrong with her. The little girl from Hogwarts was never good enough. Some part of her thinks she may be waiting for James or Al, but neither of them even ask after her.

She tells herself that doesn't bother her.

It's bad, her situation, very, very bad, for reasons that nobody else knows. In the night, sometimes, she tries to picture Sean Reece's face; his eyes, his lips, the colour of his hair, but she always comes up with nothing. She refuses to let this make her cry, tells herself she doesn't need him, but a few of the tears escape anyway.

Some days are worse than others – shaking fingers, burning eyes, sobbing into her pillow for hours on end. Ginny and Harry come to check on her, but she refuses to ask for help. The famous Potter pride has come back to bite them all.

* * *

Finally, finally, finally, Harry, at a loss, owls his two sons for assistance. As if they would know what to do any better than him. Still, they are her brothers, and she is their sister and so they agree to see what they can do.

The two stand together in front of the door of their childhood home and stare at each other. They don't mention how James recently divorced his almost newly wed wife, or how Al's painfully thinner, and pale and exhausted-looking, and has barely been home in the last couple of months because his schedule has been so ridiculously full.

The look James gives his younger brother promises hours of discussion later, though.

They ring the doorbell and it's Lily who answers, thin and ragged and dressed in a sweater that is at least four sizes too big for her.

"Hello."

They all stand in silence, the three Potter children, the sons and daughter of the greatest hero of the Wizarding World ever to live; broken and shattered and torn apart.

Then James shoves past Lily, muttering about the cold and throws his coat on the sofa (ignoring the coat rack, as he has for all these years) and shouts through the house for mum and dad.

Albus follows suit, stopping to throw a brief smile at Lily. She smiles back, but it is only an echo.

Ginny and Harry are all warmth and hugs and safety and smiles and family and reassurance. Ginny has made dinner. They eat together, for the first time in what seems like years (although wasn't it only six months ago that James dragged Al and Lily over for one last dinner before his wedding? Lily privately thinks that was the point where everything started to go downwards for the Potters.) Lily is completely silent through most of dinner and although James is all enthusiasm, and Albus tries to peace-make, the dinner ends in tears, both real and symbolic.

Things are not looking well for the Potters.

* * *

It takes days of constant talking and knocking on doors and whining and threats and cajoling and pleading, but eventually Albus and James get Lily to come out of her room.

In truth, it isn't until they stop trying that she emerges. They are in the sitting room, watching a movie and drinking tea in silence and Lily materializes in the doorway. They don't act surprised, just shift apart and make room on the couch. She drops between them, feeling small and distant. The sound of the television buzzes in and out of her ears.

James breathes before he speaks and Lily feels it, deep and full at her side. "I'm going out tomorrow for lunch. Tell mum and dad if I forget, would you, Al?"

Albus hums, then asks, "Where are you going?"

"Lunch with some old mates. They want to know about Delia," James says, and Lily is surprised, because she seems to have missed the point where it was ok to talk about James' ex-wife again.

"What old mates do you have other than Fred?" Albus asks doubtfully and James shrugs.

"You know, Rain Tresta, Ollie Finnigan, Sean Reece-"

Lily's eyes fly open, and she tries to school her expression into something neutral (it doesn't occur to her that she doesn't need to, because both her brothers are staring at the screen, but there's so much effort gone into controlling her face that her mouth runs away from her). Without her even meaning to, she says, in a calmer tone than she would have expected, "Good for you, James. Really excellent. While you're there, maybe you should ask your old mate Reece about how he got me drunk last month at a party and knocked me up."

She doesn't even realize she's said it before Albus' mug falls to the floor. It shatters and so do a thousand other things – her self-respect and her brothers' peaceable silence among them.

" _What?_ "

" _I beg your pardon?_ "

"Fuck," she mutters, twisting the sleeves of her red woolen jumper in her hands. "I didn't mean to say that."

"I'm sorry, I must be mishearing. Sean  _knocked you up_?"

"Are you  _sure_?"

"How drunk  _were_  you?"

"How long have you  _known_?"

"Why haven't you  _told_  anyone?"

"Jesus  _Christ_ , Lil."

"I am going to beat the living shit out of him."

And with that, James rises to his feet and dusts off his jeans. "I'm going right now. Al, feel free to tag along, but don't even think about pulling me off of him." Albus' face indicates that he will have no such inclination. "Lily, you might want to think about clearing up that mug while we're gone."

"Why do  _I_  get stuck at home with the cleaning?"

"You're pregnant, that's why."

"That's no excuse at all."

"Stop distracting me. I'm leaving."

And Lily can't let that happen, because even though she hates Sean Reece with her entire being, he doesn't even know that she's got a baby growing in her belly, and he should at least be given fair warning before James (who is not as broad as, say, Uncle Bill, but can still claim to have fairly impressive height and width) jumps him.

So she says, "Merlin, James, calm down a little."

That's when he starts yelling. "Don't tell me to fucking calm down! You're fucking pregnant, how big of a fucking idiot  _are you_?"

They get into an enormous row, all three of them yelling and swearing and screaming, and that's how Harry and Ginny find them upon returning home, spitting and hissing into each other's faces.

"What's going on here?" Harry roars, and he can still shut them all up as if they're eleven, ten and eight, eyes wide and staring and guilty.

Ginny fixes the mug.

Albus and James both look at Lily, and for the first time in a long time, she  _feels_  something for her family, feels it in a different way she has been feeling for months now, because even though they probably hate her right now (for disappearing just as much for getting pregnant and then not telling them), they are still letting her keep her secrets if she wants to.

Of course, the truth comes out.

Harry goes paper-white and Ginny holds her hands to her mouth and Lily hates herself for making them like this, and hates herself for caring what they think. She's beyond that.

* * *

They sit down after the shock wears off and talk about what to do now. Harry makes Lily swear off drinking and sleeping around and smoking (and Lily defends herself by saying that she's off  _everything_  now, even against her will, because this house is like a damn rehabilitation centre).

She decides she wants an abortion and Albus is horrified by the thought, but James takes his brother aside and after a while, they all agree that it is Lily's choice.

She doesn't tell the rest of the family, not even Teddy, who is like a third brother to her. ("He'd have to keep it a secret from Victoire," Lily reasons to them. "Which really wouldn't be fair on him.")

"He would want to know," James says stoutly and Lily glares at him.

"Don't you dare tell any of them. Especially Dom."

Ginny is uncomfortable keeping secrets from the rest of them, but Lily won't be swayed. She thinks, at night, when dreams are whispering to her, and secrets, and darkness, that some part of her is holding on to the past; the Potter princess, the invincible girl, the adored child, the centre of attention. Her shiny spot in the family, which has admittedly been tarnished, but not as much as it would be if she told.

Another part of her thinks it's because of her family that this happened.

Still, one day, maybe she will be ready to say. For now, it will stay hidden.

Al and James do beat up Sean Reece, in the end although not before telling him, under no uncertain terms, that he is to get the hell out of her life and never come back.

He does what they say, of course. The Potter children might be broken and fractured and messed up on the inside, but they still have enough fire and fury to burn the entire world to the ground if they want to.


	2. The Centre Cannot Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Belatedly, apologies for the swearing in the previous chapter. Lily is the type of person who would swear when things don't go her way, I think. Albus doesn't swear at all, really, so she definitely didn't pick it up from him. James does swear a little bit, but only when he can't help it. He controls himself rather well in this chapter. I'm quite proud of him for that.
> 
> Disclaimer: Misplaced sense of pride in James, since I am neither responsible for him, nor the other members of the family.

_James_

She was what the Muggles would have termed his high school sweetheart. Same year, same House, same background, same interests. It had seemed natural, almost normal, that kiss in the backyard at age fourteen.

His parents had seemed rather amused and Albus had teased him to no end about it, but nobody else had seemed particularly surprised either. She had been wearing a green skirt and a red blouse that clashed horribly, but she had never had an eye for colour and he liked her all the more for it.

Their first in-school kiss, as the cousins had termed it, was not a complete catastrophe, to his own shock. They had gotten caught (rather carelessly) under the Hogwarts mistletoe, but it had been in a private corner and Fred had entered the hallway only to catch sight of them and back out again.

He proposed to her under the apple tree where they had first kissed.

She had been wearing an old blue jumper and jeans. He had been wearing his robes (although for what reason, he could never remember). She had said yes.

His parents were not so much amused as happy for him and Albus, of course, teased him to no end about it, but once again, nobody had seemed particularly surprised.

Sometimes, he had wished something surprising would happen to him, so that he would be different from all the cousins.

Sometimes, now, he regrets making that wish.

* * *

They go to Greece for their honeymoon, because she has always wanted to see Santorini, with its blue and white houses. They take Muggle photographs and spend about half a day trying to get them developed in a little shop they find in some side street. ("Barmy Muggle inventions," James shakes his head.)

When they come home, James' grandmother throws them a huge lunch (huge in that the entire family is present) and they all spend time getting to know Delia, for which James is infinitely grateful.

The marriage does not last.

There is about one month, only a month, of bliss and perfection before the problems begin. Ironically, the biggest problem between them is his family.

Delia, for reasons beyond James' understanding, has never been fond of Albus. When she tells him it's his little brother she has the biggest issue with, and not Fred or Louis or Molly or even Lily, James does a double take. Almost nobody has problems with Al. He's too damn nice and too damn relatable. It's his biggest problem, and one of the best things about him. It makes James hate him half the time, but the other half wishes he was more like his little brother.

"What is it exactly about Al that you disagree with?" James asks her one of the times she grouses about him.

"I just don't think Quidditch is a very fulfilling career."

"Why should his career fulfill you?" James asks, genuinely bewildered.

"It's a little self-indulgent, don't you think? I mean, there are so many more worthwhile pursuits."

James does another double-take. "So what if Albus doesn't save lives every day? He loves Quidditch and he's bloody good at it."

"I just disagree with competitive sport. As a principle."

" _Sorry_?"

The entire family congregates for lunch one Sunday afternoon and the tension between the happy couple is not missed.

"What's going on with you and Delia?" Rose mutters to him in an undertone.

"Had a row," James replies shortly.

"About what?"

"Al."

Rose lifts one eyebrow. "I see."

James turns to her. "You don't seem very surprised."

She shrugs. "I'm not."

That's as much as she says before Delia is there all of a sudden, handing him a glass of lemonade (and no alcohol), smiling tightly, pulling him slightly away from Rose and towards her. Rose shoots him a knowing look and melts away into the crowd of cousins.

* * *

At a complete loss, he asks his uncle George about it the next time he is at the shop, browsing for some birthday presents. George gives him a funny look, sort of similar to the one Rose had bestowed on him.

"Do you really not see it?" George asks and James frowns.

"See what?"

"James, it's not my business to comment on your personal life-"

"Since when has anyone in this family not given another member of this family a piece of their mind when asked? Or when not asked, come to that?"

George hesitates, but nods. "Delia is just a bit…possessive of you." James splutters in protest, but George lifts a hand. "Hear me out. Your father never had any siblings growing up, but he always wanted a big family. It caused some problems between he and your mother, before they were married, but they sorted it out in the end."

"Okay."

"Point is, he raised the three of you to be close." James opens his mouth to argue and George cuts him off. "Everyone knows that you'll protect Lily to…well…to the death, grim as that may be, and you and Al squabble like trolls on a good day, but he adores you and you'd do anything for him."

James shifts, uncomfortable. "Okay," he repeats, but doesn't deny it.

"Not to mention the other cousins. Louis and Fred have always been your best friends, and Dom and Molly are like your older sisters, and –"

"So we're a close family."

"If you want my honest opinion, Jimmy boy, I think she's jealous."

James winces at the nickname, then stares. "Jealous of me? But they're her family too!"

George shakes his head exasperatedly. "You really don't know anything about women, do you? She's not jealous of  _you_. She's jealous of  _them_."

The pieces begin to fall into place. "She's jealous that I…that I love them too?" he asks. "And I do  _so_  know about women."

George's subsequent snort indicates a sarcastic ' _Clearly_.'

James rolls his eyes at his uncle, but then George invites him into the back room and shows him how to make Decoy Detonators, and James forget the entire thing with Delia.

* * *

It all comes to a head in the third month of their marriage.

Delia is yelling at him for being late back (he had been having tea with Dom and Roxanne, but he isn't going to mention that), then she is crying and then she is throwing things across the room.

"Did I frighten you?" James asks, confused. The clock on the wall says he's only half an hour late.

"No, but I've been waiting for you," she replies.

"Oh. Sorry," he says in what he thinks to be an adequately sincere and apologetic manner. (Although he can't bring himself to feel actually sincere and apologetic, despite the fact that he is in the wrong.)

"Were you with Al and Lily?" Delia asks, almost casually and James stiffens.

"No."

"With Fred?"

James rolls his eyes. Fred is the one that he sees least of all the cousins these days, besides maybe Hugo and Lucy, and despite (or perhaps because of) this, Fred is the one Delia approves of the most. "Not Fred, no."

"Where were you, then?"

"Out for tea."

"With who?"

"Dom and Roxanne."

Delia folds her arms over her chest and eyes him steadily. James stares back. "And you didn't think that maybe, I'd like to spend some time with you tonight?"

"What exactly do you have against me spending time with my family?" he demands crossly.

"You spend  _all_  your time with your family," Delia shoots back, eyes blazing.

"That-that isn't true," James protests, although when he thinks about it honestly, it is.

"You know it is."

James thinks for a moment. "Lots of people would be thrilled if their spouse was close with their family. I know I wish you were closer with yours. I wish we could have dinner with your parents without you having a fight with your sister and brother, or that I could meet your aunts and uncles."

Delia rolls her eyes. "James, I'm  _thrilled_  that you're so close with your family. It's just that they're everything to you."

This is indeed true. "So?"

Delia stares at him for a moment before responding. "I'm not one of them."

"That's ridiculous," is all James can think of to say.

"No, it isn't. I've known you for more than ten years. We're married, for Merlin's sake, and I'm not even  _close_  to them in terms of familiarity with you."

"It's not a competition," James says. "I love you and I love them, in a completely different way."

"You'd die for Lily and Albus," Delia says, shrugging, almost as if she doesn't care about what she's saying. James knows her well enough, however to see her upset in the set of her shoulders and the clench of her jaw.

"Yes?" he asks, not sure where this is going.

"Would you do it for me?"

He stares at her, not sure what to say. Finally, he settles with – "Are you insane?"

Her eyebrows fly upwards and her eyes widen, and for a moment, she is the wide-eyed, blushing girl on their wedding day. "I don't believe so."

"Delia," he says, using her name for the first time since he arrived home. "I love  _you_. I got down on one knee and proposed to  _you_. I married  _you_. I live with  _you_. I'm sharing half of myself with  _you_. And while I'm not planning on dying any day soon, how on earth can you possibly think I wouldn't do it for you, just the same as Al and Lily?"

She looks surprised by this, although he suspects it is more surprise at his fervour than at his words. "I just feel like you value them more than me."

"That's ridiculous," he repeats firmly, taking a step closer to her. She doesn't move away. "You don't choose your family. I got incredibly lucky with mine. We love each other and I would do anything for them. I need them. But I didn't choose them." He takes another step forward. "I  _chose_  to be with you and I  _choose_  to be with you every day. And I need you too. Don't you think that means something?"

She sniffs. "I suppose so."

"You're being silly. There's nothing to be jealous of."

She jerks back a little, stung. "Who says I'm jealous?"

James laughs. "I would be jealous too, if you gave someone more attention than me."

She softens and he closes the gap between them and there is no more talk of this for a while.

* * *

The next time he goes out with one of the cousins, or any other member of the family, Delia presses her lips closed, but she tells him to 'Have a great time.'

And he does.

* * *

In the fifth month of their marriage, she starts disappearing halfway through the day and night, and won't tell him where she's going.

He takes all sorts of measures to find out. "Are you pregnant?" he asks once and she hits him with such force that there's a bruise on his arm for the next fortnight, and his parents take to asking him, only half-jokingly, if he's being subjected to domestic violence.

She says that she has a work function to organize. He roots through her desk drawers and work files, but there's nothing odd going on at work.

He tells Albus and his father about it one afternoon when they're out looking at broomstick supplies for Albus' next Quidditch tour. Albus is drawn, and somehow, he looks taller, and his bones are sharp and jutting, as if the skin is stretched tight over them. James wants to comment, but doesn't find the time.

Harry opens a Quidditch manual and starts to browse through it, only looking up at intervals when James mentions a particular time of Delia's disappearance. Albus is less subtle. "Have you considered that she's having an affair?"

"What?" James asks, startled.

"An affair. Maybe she's having one. Consider it."

"Nah," James shakes his head. "She-"  _Would have talked to me if she was unhappy_ , he is about to say, but then he realizes that they haven't had a proper conversation in a long time, and he has no idea when the last time they actually paid attention to each other was.

Albus is watching him. "Yes?"

Harry smacks his younger son over the back of the head with the Quidditch manual. "There's no need to be so insensitive, Albus."

"Yeah,  _Albus_ ," James smirks and Albus rubs the back of his head.

"Ouch."

"James." Harry takes a deep breath. "Have you thought about it?"

James thinks about it. "I guess not."

"And?"

He shrugs. "It's possible, I suppose."

"James, I'm no expert on marriage-"

"Or women, or girls, or anything else of that nature," James interjects and ducks a slap from Albus.

"-but I think you're supposed to act upset if you think your wife might be having an affair."

"Yeah, and married couples are supposed to get old and make tea and biscuits and look after their children. But here I am, in a shop with my brother, the international Quidditch star, who somehow, has managed to go all of today without anyone recognizing him, and my father, the most famous wizard ever to have lived, who defeated the most dangerous Dark Wizard in history, buying Quidditch supplies." James shrugs again.

"So…so it doesn't bother you?" Harry asks, bewildered.

It does bother him. It bothers him a lot. But it doesn't bother him as much as James thinks it should.

So he shops for Quidditch supplies until someone recognizes Harry Potter and his son Albus, and his other son, James, and then they all go home.

* * *

"I want a divorce."

"I'm sorry?"

The conversation starts this way.

"I said-"

"I heard you."

Delia puts her spoon down and gazes at James. "There's something wrong with our marriage."

"There's nothing wrong with our marriage."

"There is."

"What is it?" challenges James, daring her to find something. Financial stability, domestic serenity, possibility of children. All there.

"We don't love each other."

This brings him up short. "That isn't true."

"Oh, but it is."

"I love  _you_ , Delia," James says in a small voice.

Delia smiles sadly. "You love me like you love a  _friend_. And you get to have sex with me."

"If you tell me it's because the sex is unsatisfactory-"

"The sex is perfectly satisfactory."

James is sorely tempted to say –  _Then what's the problem here?_ , out of sheer spite, but he doesn't. "Delia, if this is about my family again-"

"James, I'm seeing someone else."

Total silence reigns and James' hand freezes on his fork. Delia sits, face like stone. "You're having an affair."

"I'm sorry."

"Dad and Al said you were."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Delia exclaims and her hands fly out and her plate tips and then the entire table is covered in curls of pasta and vegetables. "This is it! Nothing goes on between us without it getting discussed with your family! When we got tested to see whether we could have children, it was supposed to be a private thing. Next thing I know, there's three members of your family coming up to me and talking about childcare and nappies, and how much leave I should take when I deliver!"

"Delia-"

"I say I'm having an affair and you don't even care to ask  _who with_ , you just want to tell me how your brother and your father had speculated it before I told you."

"Delia-"

"And who knows  _what_  you've told them about me, because all of a sudden, your uncles and Dom and Louis and Rose are all giving me dirty looks and not speaking to me and everyone else acts like I have some kind of disease, what with all the edging away from me-"

" _Delia!"_

His shout echoes through the house, the empty, empty house and she falls silent. James' eyes are narrowed and he breathes in heavily through his nose. "Don't make me the enemy. You're the one who betrayed our marriage. You're the one who has the problem. You're the one who can't deal with the fact that there are other people in my life. You're the one who's decided to give up on us. So don't you  _dare_  sit there and pontificate and tell me about how I was the vindictive one. Don't you dare."

Delia, for her part, seems surprised at this. "I just-"

"Who are you having an affair with?" he asks suddenly, because he really wants to know.

"Do you care?" Delia asks quietly.

"You're my wife, of course I care!"

"Really? So you'll be able to tell people after we get a divorce?"

"I haven't agreed yet."

"Why not?"

"There's no reason to get a divorce!"

"Being unhappy in a marriage isn't a good enough reason?"

James' expression slips into hurt for a moment before he recovers himself. "Have I made you unhappy?" Delia gives him a look. "We can't get a divorce, Delia. We can't. I won't allow it."

"Give it a minute." James folds his arms and sits back in his chair. The hurt is pounding through his skull like a sledgehammer, but he stares at her. "It's Troy Yaxley."

James sort of sees red for a moment, but then his vision colours with disbelief, in blues and greens more than anything else. "I'm sorry? You're-you're having an affair with that –" He arrests his tongue before he can say the word he is thinking. "We  _hated_  him in school, he was the world's biggest bigot."

"That wasn't his fault," Delia says firmly. "He's not like that anymore. He never had that luxuries we did when he was growing up. Not everyone is as lucky as us, James. Not everyone's families were on the winning side of the war."

James stares at her. "You've gone mad."

"I haven't gone mad," Delia says, almost gently now. "I'm applying for divorce. For me, yes, but for you as well. Because  _I_ don't love you anymore, not in that way, but I still love you. You were my best friend for  _years_ , and I'll understand if you don't want to be friends now-"

"Damn right, I don't."

Delia's face tightens with hurt for a second, and James almost takes it back, but then he thinks  _tit for tat_  and lets her be hurt. "That's alright, then. But I still feel something for you, and you deserve to be happy."

James can't stop the emotion from flooding his next question. "If you were unhappy, why didn't you just  _talk_  to me?" he demands. Tears sting his eyes and he presses them back.

Delia looks at him softly. "I  _did_ , James. Many times. And you never understood, and maybe that was just it. Maybe we're just not on the same wavelength."

"Bullshit," James says fiercely. "That stuff's total crap."

" _I_  believe in it," she shrugs, as if that proves her point. He falls back in his chair, stunned. Delia rises and walks over to him quietly, gently. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "You deserve someone who isn't me," she tells him, almost generously and James hates her for it. "Someone who isn't in love with someone else." She sighs and removes her hand. "I'll find somewhere else to sleep tonight."

"Are you going to go to  _him_?" he asks through gritted teeth.

She shrugs. "He's my family now." And that hurts, more than anything else. Because all of a sudden, she's not his family anymore; she doesn't consider him family. Maybe she never really did. "And you're right." He looks up at that. "I  _am_  the one giving up. I am the one who betrayed us and I am the one who has the problem." She shrugs. "I'm willing to say all that for official records. But if you think you're innocent in all this, then you're a fool."

He opens his mouth to protest and she laughs. "We're not going to be married for much longer, James. We don't have to lie to each other or to ourselves about each other any more. You never loved me the way you loved them. And you never even tried to rectify it. And yes, maybe I was a little too harsh on you. But I'm not the only one who's given up; I'm just the one who's saying it out loud."

James folds his arms tighter and squeezes his eyes shut and she brushes a soft kiss to the top of his head and whispers goodbye and then she's gone.

* * *

Albus is between Quidditch seasons, but he's on holiday in Italy.

He comes straight back, though, as soon as James calls.

James recounts the entire conversation and by the end, Albus' thin face is further pinched and horrified. "I'm sorry," his brother says and James shrugs as if it's no big deal, even though all he really wants to do is cry.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Sign the papers or don't."

"Thanks, Al, that's really excellent advice." Albus sighs and James eyes him. "You don't seem terribly surprised." Albus doesn't answer. And suddenly, James realises. "You think she's right."

"About what?"

"That I…I don't even know…"

"Look. She wanted you to choose her over us."

"And I wouldn't. You think I should've?"

Albus laughs bitterly. "I'd never want you to choose someone else over us, you know that. But," he shrugs, "I'm a selfish bastard, aren't I?"

"No," James replies honestly.

Albus is quiet for a moment, then asks – " _Did_  you love us more than her?"

James shrugs helplessly. "No, I don't- yes, I- I don't know."

Albus sighs. "You should have called Dom. She was always so much better at sympathy than I was."

And what is it about this statement that is the final straw, James doesn't know. Perhaps the recollection of their younger days, or his brother's familiar cadence of speech, or maybe the fact that Albus seems to realize he needs comfort.

Either way the tears start to fall and dimly, he thinks that Albus looks slightly uncomfortable and he needs to start seeing him and his parents more, because he's lost the ability to read their faces and know how they feel.

And that's when he sees it. What Delia was saying. That he sees his family's faces and reads them like familiar books. That he cares enough to notice when he can't do that anymore. That he never even tried to have it with her.

He brought his entire marriage down around him without even realizing it. It makes his head throb in a strange, muffled way, and his hands clench.

"James?" And suddenly there are long, thin fingers hooking into his jumper, pulling him into a hug, and James sobs into his little brother's shoulder until there is nothing left.

Albus leaves him there, with tea and red eyes, still a mess, and goes to find their parents. And there, grief worn down to his sleeves, still sniffling, James begins to think that he has done Delia a lot of wrong.


	3. To Thine Own Self Be True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for slight gore, a smidgen of swearing and a whole ladle-ful of unresolved childhood issues.
> 
> Disclaimer: Teddy is not of my creation, but his mother's, his father's and Ms. Rowling's.

_Teddy_

_They died heroes._

Three words that have haunted Teddy his entire life.

It is the first thing that his grandmother ever told him about his parents; it is the ending to every speech about the Wizarding War; it is the comfort that others think they can provide through the words; it is the murmuring that settles eventually onto his skin and into his bones, the whispering that he hears when he closes his eyes and tries to picture their faces.

He is the son of heroes.

Harry seems to have some semblance, some kind of understanding as to his confusion. The best stories that Teddy hears about Remus and Nymphadora Lupin are from his godfather.

Harry tells him about the Marauders, about the Order of the Phoenix, about his father's passion for chocolate, about his mother's clumsiness. Harry tells Teddy about his mother's astonishing ability to change her appearances – an ability which she has apparently passed onto him.

When Teddy asks what he has inherited from his father, Harry tells him about Remus' bravery and loyalty and intelligence.

It isn't until he is older that he sees the adults' tight-lipped, anxious expressions and furtive glances every time his father is mentioned. It isn't until he is even older that he finds out why.

Somehow, he finds it easier to speak to someone he doesn't know, than to speak to someone who he does.

Teddy takes his concerns to the Hogwarts Matron, who is equally sympathetic and understanding. "Lycanthropy isn't hereditary. There's no way to be affected except by bite."

"But we don't know that," Teddy argues. "Do we have any records of previous children by werewolves?"

"Not as far as I know," she tells him and he makes a gesture with his hands that is halfway between  _See?_  and  _What now?_ "But," she continues. "If you had inherited lycanthropy, there would be symptoms."

"Like what?" Teddy asks immediately.

"Like turning into a wolf at the full moon," she replies, smiling a little. He doesn't smile back. "Teddy, your mother and father died to give you life. They died heroes." (Teddy grits his teeth.) "Both of them were brilliant people. They wouldn't have given you something like that to carry."

"They wouldn't have had much choice," Teddy says cynically.

The Matron smiles kindly. "I'll have you tested if it will make you feel better. But I can guarantee you that you'll be completely and utterly normal."

For a few years, Teddy thinks that maybe she is right. He dates Victoire, meets her friends, gets into training (he applies for International Security and Relations, because Andromeda insisted on his learning French and Italian as a child. Harry tells him constantly that he has the aptitude and mindset for Auror training, but Teddy steers well away from that. He doesn't want his children hearing that he died a hero.) He plays Quidditch with his god-siblings and their cousins, he graduates, he starts work, he moves in with Vic.

It is after life has started to happen to him that the nightmares begin.

* * *

On the first night, he wakes up, gasping and retching, not even sure what the dream was. He doesn't remember any of it, when Vic asks about it, just flashes of red and white and black and brown, and hints of screaming. He doesn't sleep for the rest of the night, but watches a full moon rise over the city while Vic settles down again.

The next morning, Teddy pretends to be fine, shrugs on his coat and goes to work under Victoire's worried eye.

Nobody notices anything unusual.

There's a note on his desk – they want to send him to France, to sort out some minor issues between the agreements in some part of the Ministry. Codal wants to see him in her office later in the morning. Teddy thinks maybe he will take Vic with him this time, back to France. She can visit her grandparents and her aunt and the rest of her family.

He's been to France several times before, both on business trips and for pleasure. Teddy's in love with the streets of London, but he thinks half of Vic's heart is in France, despite her having lived all her life in England. They spend several days in Paris before Teddy has to go to work. On those days, Vic takes the train up to Provence and stays with her mother's family.

On the night of the second moon, it happens again. This time, he remembers a little more. There is fur and blood and a strange metallic taste inside his mouth that is both sickening and satisfying. Screaming resonating in his ears – his own, perhaps, or someone else's.

Teddy wakes that night, expecting to be surrounded by blood, thick and damning. Instead, there are only miles of white sheet, twisted and mangled by his own tossing and turning. He has two sleepless nights in a row and stumbles through his workload. When Victoire comes back, she has countless stories of the countryside – the excitement is less, she tells him, but the people are kinder. Teddy could use a little less excitement.

* * *

"You look different, you know," Dom comments. It is a moment before Teddy realises that she is talking to him.

"Hmm? Oh. Do I?"

Dom purses her lips, and on the other side of the table, Louis folds his arms on the table and stares at him contemplatively. "You do, actually," he tells Teddy. "Something about the eyes-"

"He's tired," Vic says, sitting down and handing him his coffee. "He hasn't been sleeping. Insomnia, probably."

"Insomnia?" Dom asks, her tone of voice conveying her doubt.

Teddy shrugs and grins tiredly. "The doctor says so." But Dom and Louis look so concerned that Teddy seriously considers telling them the truth.

" _Future_   _Healer_." Vic stresses the words, then looks at James. "You're very quiet. What did you want to tell us, anyway?"

James takes several deep breaths, then speaks. His coffee sits, neglected, next to the edge of the table. "Delia and I are getting divorced."

There is a collective breath around the table, and all thoughts of confessing his nightmares vanish from his head. "Divorced?" he hears himself say loudly, then apologises as the girls glare at him.

"What happened?" they want to know.

"Just fell apart, I suppose," James says, and they can all tell that he is lying but none of them want to press him for details.

"How are you feeling about it?" Teddy ventures when nobody else says anything.

James sighs. "The papers haven't come through – I just want the whole thing to be over. It's like one gigantic nightmare that I just can't wake up from."

Teddy knows the feeling.

* * *

"Are you  _sure_  you're alright?" Victoire asks, hopping on one foot as she pulls her left sock on. Teddy has woken up yet again, shivering and shouting and sobbing, and Vic is convinced that he has come down with something awful.

Teddy is compelled to agree with her; the pull and tug of his muscles and bones, the feeling of blood and flesh between his teeth, meat and sinew beneath his clawed hands – this cannot be normal, even in dreams. But he smiles at her because the full moon is fading into the dawn, and she is already late for a shift. "Fine,  _cherie_. Go."

"But I just think-"

Teddy shakes his head and laughs. "Don't fuss, Vic. I'm alright."

She eyes him suspiciously, but Teddy is a better liar by far than James. "Aren't you seeing Scorpius today?"

Teddy nods. The movement makes him want to vomit, but he draws a deep breath and tells his stomach firmly to stay where it is. "At twelve, for lunch."

"Do you think maybe it's better not to? If you're ill…"

"It'll be fine," Teddy laughs, because she is such a Healer. "I won't pass anything onto Scorp. I'm sure it's just something funny I ate-"

"That made you cry out in your sleep?" Vic asks with an arched eyebrow.

Teddy smiles at her; tries to portray an exasperated look that means she is fussing yet again, even though his heart is still pounding in his chest. "Go to work, Vic. I'll be fine by the time you get home, I promise."

* * *

"Are you alright, mate?"

"Why is  _everybody_  asking me that?" Teddy practically shouts, then realizes that Scorpius looks extraordinarily taken aback. "Sorry," he mutters self-consciously.

Scorpius looks carefully at his cousin. "No matter. You do look like you're recovering from a bad bout of flu, and we don't even  _get_ the flu."

Teddy sighs. "Vic said the same thing to me this morning – honestly, everyone just needs to stop fussing over me."

Scorpius leans back in his chair and considers Teddy. "It's really bad, isn't it?" Teddy lifts an eyebrow. "Whatever's bothering you; it's really bad."

"How do you mean?"

Scorpius rolls his eyes. "You might be able to lie to everybody else, but you can't lie to me. We both have Black blood, remember? I know what putting a brave face on looks like. Blacks make the best liars." He pauses. "Are you having an affair or something?"

Teddy is struck with amusement for a moment. "Sorry?"

Scorpius watches his reaction carefully. "Clearly not. Are you sick? Is it serious?"

"I'm not sick," Teddy hisses, thinking of Lucy. "Don't say that."

"Thank Merlin," Scorpius says in a heartfelt voice, clearly thinking the same. "Because I don't think we'd be able to deal with more than one." Teddy remains mutinously silent. "Would it help if I promised not to tell Vic?"

"You aren't going to give up, are you?" Teddy asks.

"Nope," Scorpius says with a shrug and calls the waiter over. They order their food and drinks. "So you might as well tell me because I'll just keep asking."

Teddy stares down at the table. The wood carries a pattern of swirls and lines. "I'm having these nightmares." If Scorpius is surprised, he does not say anything. "And in them," Teddy continues, feeling silly saying it aloud in the light of day, seated in a café by the side of the road. "I turn into a wolf." Scorpius only looks at him with large grey eyes. "And then I…I kill people."

Scorpius swallows. It is his first sign of distress. "Every night?"

Teddy shakes his head and speaks the part that disturbs him the most. "Only at full moon."

It is clear that Scorpius does not know what to say. "I don't know what to say," the younger man admits.

"I kind of figured that one," Teddy says, because Scorpius is still his little cousin.

Scorpius rolls his eyes. "Why  _don't_  you speak to Vic about it?"

Teddy sighs. "She'll make me take all these tests, and I just don't want to."

"What about Harry?"

"Same thing."

"And you don't want to take tests?"

It is Teddy's turn to roll his eyes. "They take one look at my name and they know everything about me and who I am. I hate going to St. Mungo's. They all look at me like they feel sorry for me."

"At the moment, I feel pretty sorry for you," Scorpius points out, although he manages to do so without sounding at all patronizing.

"You're different," is all Teddy says, and then the food arrives.

* * *

As far as Teddy knows, Hermione works four flours and fifteen offices away from him. If she needs him, she sends an owl. If she needs him urgently, she Floos. Nobody has time to walk four floors and fifteen office doors for a friendly chat.

"This isn't a friendly chat, is it?" Teddy guesses when Hermione appears at his door.

"No," she replies with a smile. "It's not work-related either, though."

And Teddy sees why she is there. "Scorp told you. Tattle-tale," he mutters darkly and Hermione laughs.

"He thought I might have some ideas about how to help you – Rose doesn't know," she adds as she sees the question forming on Teddy's lips. "Nor does Al. Just me."

Teddy sighs, feeling incredibly tired all of a sudden; and leans back in his chair. " _Do_  you have any ideas?" he asks, half-resigned, half-hopeful.

Hermione retrieves a scrap of paper from her handbag and hands it to him. "It's a Muggle idea," she tells him. "And this woman is a Muggle, so probably don't speak to her about Lycanthropy. I can give you an alternate backstory that's similar if you like – but I'm sure you know enough about Muggle illnesses from Vic."

Teddy looks skeptically at the paper in his hand. "Is this even applicable to my situation?"

Hermione shrugs. "I went a few times after I came out of Hogwarts. After it all. Got nightmares. Talking about them seemed to help." Her expression softens as she watches him. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Harry and Ron, who both refused – it never hurts to try. And if it doesn't help, we'll try something else."

* * *

"So you've been having dreams."

Teddy has always assumed therapists – as foreign as the Muggle concept is to him – are old, cardigan-wearing bats with glasses and offices with musty-smelling books. Dr. Missleton is the very opposite – tall, slim and  _very_  attractive, dressed in a tasteful suit, with dazzling blue eyes and brown hair tucked up into a sleek knot. Teddy is offered some tea and they chat lightly about his career (diplomat, rather than International liaison between Magical Offices) and his parents ("Yes," Teddy says with a wry smile. "They died heroes.") before diving in.

"Yeah," he tells her. "And I kill people in them."

Dr. Missleton blinks her blue eyes and nods, making a small note on her page. "Do you know the people you kill?"

Teddy is impressed by her lack of reaction, but refuses to show it. "No; I don't really see their faces. I just know I'm killing them."

"How do you know?" she asks.

Teddy thinks about this for a moment. "I can feel my teeth and hands ripping them apart."

"Your teeth?" Dr. Missleton asks curiously.

_Fangs_ , Teddy wants to add, but bites back the impulse.

"How interesting." Missleton seems genuinely intrigued. "And Hermione tells me that you had quite a traumatic childhood."

"Er- yeah," Teddy says.

"Your parents were killed," she reads off her page. "And your father had some kind of disease you think he might have passed down to you – what kind of disease?" she asks, looking up.

Teddy shrugs in response, not knowing what to say. "Are the dreams psychological?" he wants to know.

"Do you have them often?" Missleton asks.

"Maybe once a month," he allows, because that is close enough to the truth.

"Regularly?"

"Yes."

"When did they start?"

"About five months?"

"And have you missed one since then?"

"No."

"And it's the same every time?"

"Yeah, I turn into the wolf, and then-" Teddy freezes as Missleton looks up at him.

"Come again?" she says slowly.  _Shit_ , Teddy thinks to himself, but Missleton's eyes are wide. "Did you say wolf?" She consults her notes. "Were your parents killed by wolves?"

"No," Teddy says, and the familiar thickness enters his throat as does when he talks about his parents. "They were killed by people. But my dad…was afraid of wolves."

Missleton glances at him. "That could be relevant."

"Fear isn't hereditary," Teddy argues.  _Theoretically, neither is Lycanthropy._

"More things are hereditary than you'd suppose," Missleton says, which does not make Teddy feel better in the slightest.

* * *

"What did you do today?" Vic asks into the darkness of their bedroom.

Teddy considers making something up – after all, Scorpius has told him that he'll cover for him if necessary – but decides against it. "Therapy."

"Therapy?" Vic asks, sounding astonished. "The Muggle thing?"

"Yeah," he tells her. "Hermione put me onto someone."

"What for?"

He shrugs, although she cannot see him. "Just thought it might be helpful."

Vic is quiet, and he can practically feel the cogs in her head turning. "What did you talk about?" she asks.

"My parents," he replies truthfully, but refuses to divulge any more.

* * *

He finds Dr. Missleton's curious and somewhat abrasive manner quite soothing, but after a year, even he has to admit that the therapy is not helping. Teddy has taken to ensuring that his business trips coincide with the full moon – Victoire is too thoughtful and too clever not to notice the correlation between the lunar event and his nightmares. Scorpius has taken to owling him after full moon nights, asking whether he needs company; sending so many chocolate bars that Teddy's heart nearly stops of its own volition.

Dr. Missleton's astute questioning has started to become relevant as well. On the eleventh full moon since the commencement of his dreams, his parents had appeared, ghostly and disapproving as he ripped his father's arm from its socket and then devoured his mother's abdominal region. Teddy had owled in sick that day, and cried like he had not done for years. His family made regular appearances his nightmares following that, although his parents never surfaced again.

After a particularly grueling night on which he slashes James' chest open into ribbons, gouges out Albus' eyes and tears Lily's head from her shoulder with only his hands, Teddy gives up and Apparates into the Potter's house.

It is eerily silent and he calls for Harry, who appears from the study with hooded eyes. "I can come back," Teddy offers weakly but Harry's eyes widen at the sight of him, still in his pyjamas, wand hand shaking from the aftermath of the dream, and pulls him into the study.

"What's going on with you?" Harry demands in that fatherly way he always has and Teddy feels as if he is going to burst into tears again.

"How's Lily?" he asks first. James had sent a message saying that Lily had emerged from her room and her health and habits were both improving, but he wants to hear it from his godfather's mouth.

"Better," Harry admits, rubbing a hand over his face. "She's upstairs in her room right now, sorting through some old things." Teddy nods, grateful that at least one of them is hale and whole. "So what's wrong?"

And it all spills out like water from a dam – the dreams, the full moons, the killing, the therapy, more killing. Harry's mouth falls open and his eyes are full of sympathy. "Ted," he says quietly. "Why haven't you mentioned this before?"

Teddy loves Harry like a father but cannot admit, even to him, that he is ashamed. Ashamed of his father, ashamed of the Lycanthropy, and ashamed that the disease might be in his blood as well. But Harry does not need to be told. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Teddy," he says with the same evenness in his voice. "Nothing."

"I know," Teddy says miserably. "But I don't know what to do now."

Harry thinks for a moment. "Hermione obviously thinks the problem is psychological; she sent you to a therapist."

"The therapist thinks they're psychological too," Teddy volunteers and Harry scoffs.

"Therapists think everything is psychological." Teddy acknowledges this. "I'd be more inclined to trust Hermione's judgement than a therapist's."

"You'd be more inclined to trust Hermione's judgement over God's," Teddy retorts with all the cheek of a kid, and Harry smacks him over the head lightly.

"Look, we know you're not a werewolf," Harry says. "And we're fairly sure the only way to turn someone into a werewolf is via bite." Teddy nods at this. Vic has said it to him a hundred times; almost as many times as he has asked. "But you're turning yourself into a werewolf in your dreams – doesn't that sound psychological to you?"

Teddy stares. "But I've seen the therapist. It didn't help."

Harry lays a hand on Teddy's shoulder. "Do you know why I wouldn't see the therapist when Hermione asked?" Teddy gives his answer with one shake of his head. "Hermione is the kind of person who is very confident in her own abilities."

"She has every reason to be," Teddy replies and Harry nods.

"Exactly. But sometimes, all the things in her head get a bit muddled and confusing – there's so much of it, right?" Teddy nods. "Moral dilemmas and decisions and all of those things; she needed help coming to terms with them." Harry pauses, gathers his thoughts, continues. "I knew all my decisions were, if not right, then at least necessary. I didn't need to sort anything out; I needed to fight with myself. I needed to fight my past and win, in order to move on. That was something I needed to do for myself."

"You think…" Teddy stops, then starts. "You think that I need to sort out my own psychological problem?"

"I think," Harry says gently. "You need to sort through what issues you think you might have, and then decide for yourself. But," he adds, "if you battle with yourself and you win, there won't be any need to see that tall, blue-eyed woman ever again."

Teddy stares at his godfather, who laughs. "I dropped Hermione there once. Pretty, isn't she?"

Teddy only shakes his head in disbelief and laughs in return.

* * *

Vic is on a late shift and Teddy lies alone in the dark, silent flat, waiting for her to come home. The full moon is not for another four weeks, so he can relax; but his mind is buzzing too quickly to fall asleep.

Harry's words fly around the inside of his head, bumping off the walls and crashing into each other.  _You turn yourself into a werewolf_. That's what he had said. Teddy's eyes fly open. "Even I'm not that messed up," he says aloud, but the suspicion creeps up on him until it is a real theory – that he is wishing Lycanthropy upon himself to replace his dead father.

But of course, Teddy is fully aware that the Lycanthropy was not Remus' fault. There is only one major flaw that he can find in either of his parents and that is they are no longer alive. It is unfair, of course, and cannot be undone by anything in the world. Teddy has told everybody who is concerned (that is, practically anybody who cares about him) that his parents do not need his forgiveness, but if they did it, he'd give it wholeheartedly.

But really, he thinks to himself now, in the dark, who leaves their baby son when there are others to fight the war? Who chooses the world over their own kid? Of course, it is selfish to choose your child rather than your race, but is that not precisely what parents are  _supposed_  to do? Who goes to battle and leaves their only son with no choice but to dream about being a werewolf in order to reach out to his dead father? Because, Teddy reasons, heroes will be remembered through time and space, but they are never remembered for being good parents.

"Dad," he says out loud. "You have really fucked me up this time."

And he can hear Victoire putting her key in the lock and turning it as quietly as possible because she thinks he's asleep. So he turns onto his side, facing the wall, and takes deep breaths in and out.

He has been fighting this battle for nearly thirty years, ever since he could understand what parents were. He has fought and fought, and still he has not won. Dimly, he wonders whether Dr. Missleton can help, but the truth that Teddy alone knows and will not admit to anyone, not even Vic, is that he has fought this battle and lost.

Perhaps that means the dreams will never go away.

But as he lies on his side, feigning a deep and sound sleep, Teddy tells himself that it will be alright.

Instead of believing his own thoughts, Teddy hears Scorpius' words, clear as a bell in his head.

_Blacks make the best liars._


	4. Mind Over Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This was supposed to go in a very different direction but Fred has a mind of his own and refused to go that way. So I suppose in addition to belonging to Jo Rowling, he is very much his own man.

_Fred_

Fred Weasley is, perhaps more than anybody else he knows, horrified by the idea of death.

Ever since he can remember, the idea of a tall figure with a scythe and hooded cloak following various members of his family around has haunted his dreams. His father has always brushed these nightmares aside, not with callousness but gentle reprimand. "Death isn't a person that walks about," he tells his young son. "It's a hole in your chest, and your life, that won't ever go away."

But Fred sees the hollow look in his father's eyes on bad days and knows that the hooded man claimed his namesake and stole the light from his father's heart. "Can we make it better?" he remembers asking his mother.

She had smiled at him and held him and given him a kiss on the head. "You do make it better, Freddie. There are just some days; some bad days…" She had trailed off, and Fred had seen it in her eyes as well – the hollow emptiness. It frightens him.

Roxanne had been hospitalised with particularly bad dragon pox when they had been children. Fred had sobbed all night for fear that Roxie would not come home. "Merlin's sake!" George had shouted at him, then covered his mouth with a shaking hand and apologised to his son. But Fred had not cared about anything except the fact that Roxie could die. But Roxie hadn't.

It hadn't made the fear go away.

* * *

His father is, in addition to funny and brave and kind and brilliant, a wonderful businessman. And it is the acumen that Fred inherits from George, along with his charming demeanour and easy smile. "You'd slay on Wall Street," his Aunt Audrey tells him, and he isn't sure what that means, but he thinks it might be a Muggle thing.

As soon as he leaves Hogwarts, he heads straight for Gringotts. There is money to be made in banking, he knows, although he tries to talk to Albus or Molly or Rose about it and they stare back quite blankly at him. Galleons begin to accumulate in his vault, although he does not see his cousins or his sister quite as much as he would like to.

He catches bits and pieces of their lives between late hours at the office, and early mornings reading the paper with a coffee in a busy street. Fred works best where there is noise, and no wonder, given the hullaballoo of a family he has.

There are markets to be examined, but Fred forfeits a day of work to be James' best man at his wedding. After all, they had grown up together through the years. The same age and from the same family, James had been both Fred's tormentor and greatest confidante besides his sister. Fred knows that James sometimes resents that they see each other less and less as the years go on, but James is still Fred's favourite cousin (not that he will admit it with a knife to his throat). So he puts on an expensive three-piece suit and combs back his hair and flashes his teeth to himself in the mirror.

There is a picture stuck up above the bathroom sink that shows himself and Roxanne at a fair, around twelve years of age. Roxie has her long dark red hair neatly in two plaits, but Fred's own dark hair is spiking up all over the place. He had refused to touch his comb for a good few months at that age, simply out of sheer will. They are giving toothy grins to the camera, eyes sparkling and cheeks protruding. Fred loves this photo. He can nearly feel his face hurting from how much he had smiled that day; even just glancing at the photo.

Nowadays, he only smiles and sparkles his eyes at the price tags that people portray.

* * *

"Nice suit," is the first thing James says to him at the wedding, and Fred wraps arms about his cousin.

"Nice wedding," is his reply.

"Thanks for coming," James says. "I wasn't sure you'd make it."

Fred blinks, astonished. "I'm your best man. Why on earth wouldn't I make it?"

James shrugs, discomfited suddenly. "Dunno. You've got pretty important things to do."

Which floors Fred because honestly, what's more important than a (favourite) cousin's wedding?

* * *

James' divorce is a terrible affair, and only six months after the joyous wedding. "Awful lot of money gone to waste," he comments to his mother, who smacks him on the arm.

"Don't you dare say that to Jimmy's face," she warns, and Fred rolls his eyes, both at the nickname and the comment.

"How tactless do you think I am?" he demands, and across the table, Roxie snorts with all the disrespect of a sister.

James is, naturally, devastated but puts on a brave face for them all. And Fred is devastated too, because it is the first crack in the shiny façade of the Potter-Weasley fantasy life that they had all dreamed of having.

* * *

Out of the blue, Louis asks him to lunch. Fred goes, of course, abandoning his paper and his pencil and pad mid-thought. Louis seems rather distant. "You alright?" he asks.

"'Course," Louis replies. His blonde hair glints in the sun and reflects off the sunglasses propped up on his head. A group of girls at the next table giggles in their direction, their eyes flashing from Louis' blue eyes to the line of his shirt, exposing a V-shaped patch of tanned skin.

"I'd forgotten about this," Fred laughs and Louis looks around to see what he means. The girls look away immediately, their laughter only doubling and Fred lifts an eyebrow at his cousin.

"You must get enough of it," Louis points out, but Fred shakes his head.

"We're not all blessed with good looks, mate."

It is a running joke of theirs, but Louis does not look particularly jovial. "I need a favour."

"Alright," Fred says easily. "What?"

"Money."

"You want money?" Fred repeats, because this is the last thing he expected. "Things not going well with the job." Louis has, after much deliberation, just begun an office job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  _Pencil pushing_ , Uncle Bill calls it, but winks at his son to let him know that he is jibing.

"Things are going fine," Louis says, then hesitates. "I might quit."

Fred is astonished. Louis is many things, but he does not back down from anything. "Why?"

"Don't like it."

Fred examines his cousin. "Is it a woman?"

Louis laughs. "No."

"Gambling?"

"No!"

"Alcohol?" Fred lowers his voice to a whisper. "Drugs?"

" _What_?" Louis demands. "No! Look, can you lend me money or not?"

Fred knows how much money is in his vault. He is sure that no matter how much Louis wants, he will be able to give it. But he does not want to indulge something dangerous. "You tell me what it's for, Louis."

Louis mumbles something under his breath, and Fred leans forward. "I want to go travelling."

Fred blinks. "Oh." Then – "Why didn't you ask your parents?"

Louis sighs and sits up in his chair, obviously ready to exit the situation. "If you don't want to lend me money, just say."

Fred grabs his cousin's arm and pins it to the table. "Don't go. Look. How much money do you want?"

Louis' mouth falls open a little and he sits back. "You'll lend it to me?"

Fred hesitates. "I'll give it to you."

"No." Louis is firm. "No charity."

"Charity?" Fred repeats. "Louis, I'm your bloody family. If this is what you want to be happy, I'll give you the bloody money. But I don't understand why you didn't ask your parents." Louis won't meet Fred's eye. "I'm not about to fund something illegal," Fred warns and Louis shakes his hand off.

"I don't want to work at MLE anymore," he says quietly.

Fred sits back. "That's fine."

"I don't want to work anywhere anymore," Louis continues.

Fred cannot see where the conversation is headed but asks anyway. "Do you know what you  _do_  want to do?"

"Write music."

Fred frowns. It is true that Louis had been extremely attached to his guitar during school – they had never lived in the same dormitory, but Fred had often come down into the common room in the late hours of the night to find Louis strumming away and humming under his breath. He had never realised that music meant so much to Louis, but he can't understand the problem. "That's great. What's wrong with that?" Louis traces a pattern into the table with his fingers. "What?"

"It's just…I won't really be a wizard anymore, will I?"

Fred stares, dumbfounded. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I won't be doing anything… anything useful. And mum and dad would be so disappointed if they knew that I wasn't going to put myself to good use. And Rosie will absolutely hate it. And the money… well, it's just one other thing to put on mum and dad, isn't it, what with Dom not being able to…you know…"

Fred struggles to keep up with the barrage of information, so he goes from beginning to end. "Your parents would  _not_  be disappointed," he says. "You  _know_  that. Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur would be  _thrilled_  about this."

"They wouldn't."

Fred scoffs. "They'd be thrilled you finally knew what you want to do with your life. And just ignore Rosie. She believes what she believes. It shouldn't stop you from doing what you want."

Louis begins to look a little more at ease. "But you'll still lend me the money?"

"I'll still fund your travels, yes – wait." Fred's ears finally catch up with his brain. "What did you say about Dom?"

Louis looks more surprised than anything else. "You know." Fred doesn't. "She can't have kids."

And Fred's mouth drops open so fast, he is surprised his jaw doesn't shatter on the table. "She can't have kids?" he repeats numbly.

Louis looks strangely at him. "Where have you been for the past five years?"

* * *

But Dom not being able to have kids, and James getting a divorce after six months, even Louis not being able to tell his family his greatest dream – they are all small streams to a big waterfall.

The waterfall hits them on a Sunday. Lucy has asked each of them to come to The Burrow, where Grandpa Arthur still lives, although he is starting to get confused as to which direction the kitchen is in from the living room.

When Lucy tells them that she is  _ill_ , Fred thinks  _dragon pox_. It is the most common sickness in wizarding families, and all the Weasleys are pureblood, but then he remembers that Lucy's mother is Muggle-born. Vic catches on first, because she is trained to hear this kind of news, although less from the patient than the Healer. She starts to cry without warning, and then so does Lucy, and it takes a while longer before any of them know what is happening.

And nothing beats the moment when James says, rather childishly, terror dripping from his voice, "You're saying you're going to  _die_?"

It is the moment that Fred has been most afraid of his entire life and, like the rest of them, he can only stand in silence.

* * *

"I never spent much time with Lucy," Lily tells him with a voice hoarse from crying. "Out of all the cousins, I know her the least."

Fred puts the lit cigarette to his mouth and inhales. "Me too."

"Me too," Hugo says. "And would you please put those out?"

Lily and Fred glance at each other; mirroring poses of pensive smokers. Then Lily shrugs and stubs out her cigarette on the picnic table and slides down onto the grass. "Is she really going to die?" she asks, and Hugo looks up at Fred.

It has become painfully obvious to him that he is the most absent cousin in the family. But he is also older than they are by quite a few years, and they expect him to have the answers. "I don't know," he replies helplessly. "She says that's what the Healer says."

"Healers can be wrong, though, can't they?" Lily asks.

"I wonder if Vic knows anything about it," Hugo says.

"Best not to bother her," Fred says absently. If he knows Victoire (and he does), she will be searching high and low for a cure, however evasive. "And Parker's a Healer too, remember?"

Fred has not seen Lucy's boyfriend for over a year now, but suddenly, he is more grateful than anything that his cousins has him. Parker is a steady and dependable fellow, and they all know that he will never give up on Lucy. "But he mainly works in curses," Hugo says, who has evidently done his research. "He won't know much about it."

"She says she has five years," Lily says. "What if they find a cure before then?"

Hugo says nothing, but his silence portrays his doubt.

Fred says nothing, because suddenly, an idea blooms in his head.

* * *

"How are cures found?" he demands as soon as Victoire steps out of the hospital.

Vic has not seen him for a good half-year before The Burrow, and blinks at his appearance; dark plain suit, red woollen scarf, cigarette in hand. "Hello."

"Hello," Fred says impatiently. "How are cures found?"

Vic sighs. "If you're talking about Lucy, I've had this conversation about seven different times. Cures need to be researched, tested and passed through law before they can be used on wizarding civilians. Even if we were to start now, we'd never find it in time, and I know I sound  _awful_  for saying that, but it's the truth."

"But if there were a way," Fred says, trying not to let the excitement bubble in his voice.

Vic stares at him. "It would take a lot of work. The main problem is that the number of staff needed and the resources – the funding would be impossible to get. Even if we could get, there's a lot of controversy around funding of research in Healing. And Lucy would need the cure before four years pass, or the illness will have gone too far – and that would take even more funding."

"How much funding?" Fred wants to know. Vic has started walking towards an Apparition point and he follows her, cigarette smoke trailing behind them both.

She sighs and names a number – a high number, to be sure. But he can do higher. "See?" she says to him helplessly. "It's impossible-"

"It's not impossible." Fred wants to jump out into the street and leap for joy; shout to the heavens. If he is to be honest, tendrils of regret had started to curl around his heart; just how much of his family's lives and sorrow he had missed in the name of business.  _Hearts matter_ , he remembers George telling him.  _Family. It matters. More than money. More than anything._  And he had almost listened, and by Merlin, he is glad for the first time in his life that he had not heeded his father's advice. "It's  _not_  impossible."

Vic stops too, and looks at her cousin like he has gone insane. "And just where do you think we'll get that kind of money?"

Fred looks seriously at her, and then points to himself.

Vic gapes at him. And then, in that cousinly way of complete lack of abandon, she says – "Jesus, how much money do you  _have_?"

* * *

Percy and Audrey stare at him as if he has lost his mind. "Are you  _sure_  you have enough?" Audrey asks. Both earn a Ministry wage, which is neither scant or extravagant. But Fred refuses to be cowed by their disbelief.

"I have enough," he insists. "But Vic says that there's issues – I'm not sure what issues – with bias parties giving funding to research, or something like that; and we need a way to get the money from my vault into those research centres."

If anybody can help, it is Percy. He knows more about rules and regulations than any man or woman on the face of the earth. But still, hesitation lingers in his eyes. "It's an awful lot of money to give, Fred," he says carefully. "Are you sure about this?"

It is moments like these when Fred truly wonders how he seems in other people's eyes. Because of course, people who are only interested in earning money are portrayed as heartless and cold and ruthless and conniving. But he has never been interested in the number of galleons he has in Gringotts – it is the sense of achievement that pulses through him, the rush of satisfaction, the flush of success that he craves. It is similar, he supposes, to the feeling Albus derives from Quidditch or Vic derives from Healing or Rose derives from law. Money doesn't matter to him; only the thrill of making it.

They all, even his own father, seem to think that he considers money to be larger than family, and that disturbs him infinitely more than the thought of giving his money away.

But life goes on; that is something that Fred believes, and sometimes, it is too late to turn back the clock and correct erroneous perceptions. All he can do is go forward, and show the person that he would like them to see, rather than the icy persona that he seems to have unwittingly portrayed.

"I'm sure," he says quietly.

And Percy looks at him with gratitude and some understanding but does not make a fuss. If there any person in the family who knows about changing perceptions, it is his Uncle Percy. "I'll sort it," is all he says.

* * *

"Fred," Lucy says, although the rest of the family is silent and hope is beginning to dawn in their eyes. "Are you sure about this?"

Fred, feeling as if he has answered the questions a thousand times already, nods. "Of course, certain… _sacrifices_  will have to be made," he says, looking over at Louis. He could probably fund the trial and Louis' travels at the same time, but he would rather not risk it. Louis looks taken aback; Fred guesses that he is surprised this has even been a consideration. "But if you're asking if I'm willing to do this – then, yes I am." Fred hesitates before adding, "Of course I am. We're family."

And it is settled.

* * *

It's difficult. That's the update that Victoire gives him each time he asks for a report. At first, the number in his vault dissipate so rapidly that even he gets worried, but he goes back to work, and so do they, and the numbers even out.

In the middle of it all, Victoire gets pregnant. It is an absolute stroke of irony that Vic (who is a Healer, as they all keep teasing, and therefore must know every form of contraception that exists backwards) falls pregnant accidentally. According to Albus' accounts, Teddy all but descends into absolute madness. Albus laughingly makes his godbrother sound like a psychopath; ripping out his own hair, throwing furniture, shrieking like a madman; afraid that he will not make a good father.

But the baby is born, and nobody could be more pleased than Teddy. Fred does not make it to the birth, but shows up slightly late, out of breath, meeting minutes still flying from his pockets, ribbon-adorned bassinet in hand.

The baby is beautiful. They name her Dorothy Hope (because according to Teddy, no daughter of his will bear the name  _Nymphadora_ ).

Vic cries a little on the day that she gives birth, because Dom is trying so hard to be happy for her sister. But they all see the slight shadow of envy on the younger woman's face, accompanied by shame that the envy is present at all. Teddy looks alternately overjoyed and worried as well, although Fred cannot imagine what Teddy would have to be worried about. They are all certain that he will make a brilliant father.

* * *

At last, three years, seven months and four days down the line, Victoire arrives at his door in the dead of night, banging loud enough to raise the dead.

" _What_?" Fred asks, throwing a window open and looking down.

Vic's cheeks are flushed with success and she is grinning so wide that Fred is, momentarily, reminded of the photograph on his bathroom mirror. "It's done." He is downstairs in a moment, dragging her inside and asking questions that tumble over each other. Laughing Vic puts a hand out to stop him. "The trial's finished, and it's a success. Lucky we didn't let Lucy participate, though, because there were some kinks to iron out." (Fred is slightly ashamed that they will let strangers risk their lives to save Lucy's, but once again, he cannot feel regret.) "So now, all we need is for some legal documents to be signed."

"Do you have them on you?" Fred asks.

Vic notes the slightly feverish glint in his eye. "Why?" she asks. "What will you do?"

Fred gives her a mock-offended look. "Take them over to Aunt Hermione, of course. We had this sorted weeks ago – she'll have them through the system in about a minute."  _A week_ , he amends in his head.

Vic is rather taken aback. "You did this already? You planned it?"

" _Yes_ ," Fred says. "We agreed – you would handle the medical stuff and I would handle the administrative stuff." Vic's surprise lingers, and a mixture of exasperation and joy spills over in Fred's chest. "Why does everyone in this family think I'm such a useless bookend?" he demands, and Victoire laughs.

* * *

As with every other celebration, they throw a family party. Fred and Victoire are absolute heroes and are plied with so much food and drink that Fred isn't sure he's going to be able to make it home.

Albus shows up with Lucy in tow, who looks white and tired, with dark smudges on his skin that look remarkably like bruises. ("It's normal," Vic had warned them. "So don't you lot go making a fuss."

" _You're_  telling us not to make a fuss?" Louis asks and Vic throws a pillow at him.)

And they don't make a fuss about the bruises, but they do make a fuss over her; pressing her into a chair, offering her water, offering her Butterbeer, offering her juice, offering her –

"Would you all leave her alone?" Albus said with a laugh. "She's had people hovering over her all week; let her rest."

Albus takes the attention away from Lucy by handing out tickets to a Quidditch game he will be playing in the distant future, and then Hugo tells them that he is beginning yet another new manuscript.

Before they go, Molly hops up onto a chair ("Get up there, ex-Head Girl," James teases, and Molly swipes at him with an amused hand). "Can I make a toast?" she asks and they all roar with approval. She toasts Lucy first; then Victoire, who receives three hearty cheers from all the cousins. And then Molly turns and Fred knows that he is next. Molly talks about him in a way that is very touching and utterly embarrassing. Her toast to him is thoughtful and quiet, and looking around, he can see the faces of his family reflect their affection for him.

He has spent so long looking at others and seeing money rather than people. But his cousins raise their glasses to him and he knows that what they see is nothing but another member of the family who belongs with them as much as they do with each other.

* * *

James meets Fred outside the office one afternoon, and Fred is reminded of how he ambushed Victoire after her shift. James is even wearing a scarf. "Hi there," Fred says.

"Hey." James waves awkwardly. "Look, are you going home?"

Fred frowns. "Yes."

"Can I walk with you?"

Fred says, surprised, "Sure."

They walk in silence for a little while before James speaks. "Look, I owe you an apology."

Fred thinks about this for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." James let out a puff of air. "We were best mates at school, but afterwards, you sort of disappeared. After leaving Hogwarts, you've just never been around as much as the rest of us." Fred smiles wryly. James continues. "Once you started earning so much money, I just assumed that it would become the most important thing. Because money…"

It is Fred's turn to say, "Yeah." It is a Weasley trait to be suspicious of people who want lots of money.

"But you saved Lucy's life, and now you've paid for Louis to travel…" James seems to be struggling with his words. Yet another Weasley trait. Fred wonders vaguely whether he has inherited any. "Look, I'm not saying you're a good person because you give away money."

"I should hope not," Fred replies.

"I'm just saying…you're a good person." This stuns Fred into silence, but James does not seem to notice. "I mean. You're kind. And generous. And I never noticed before and I feel like I've been misjudging you for the past couple of years." James shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets and speeds up slightly. "So, er, sorry."

Fred would like to tell his cousin that there is nothing to apologise for, and that although he regrets nothing, he would still love to have been around to see all the things that went right in their lives – and wrong as well.

But Fred can't speak because honestly, it is the greatest compliment he has ever received.

* * *

George sits him down in the kitchen with a cup of tea. "You're Percy and Audrey's hero, you know. Molly too. Favourite nephew. They'd probably adopt you if you asked."

Fred smiles. "I'm not going to ask. Besides, what about Vic?"

"Alright, the two of you," George allows. "But you really made it possible; saving Lucy's life."

Fred wishes everybody would stop making out that he is some kind of hero It is only money, and family, as his father has told him in the past, is the most important thing. But it seems ungracious to say, so instead he says, "Thanks."

George leans forward seriously. "I want to talk to you. About saving her life like that."

"Alright," Fred says warily.

George sighs. "I know that death scares you." Fred opens his mouth to say something, but George holds a hand up to stop him. "I know it does, because it scares me too. And it's probably my fault that it scares you."

"Don't be ridiculous, dad."

George rolls his eyes but continues. "What you did for Lu – that was amazing. Nobody, least of all me, is going to deny that." Fred inclines his head. "But I want you to understand that it could have gone very differently."

Fred frowns. "How do you mean?"

"They might have searched and searched and not found the cure in time. They might have looked for years more before they found it, and Lucy would still have died."

Fred's heart skips a beat at even the word; his hand grips his mug ferociously. "Dad, don't  _say_  that."

George looks at his son with a terrible understanding. "Lots of things can be solved with money. But death." He sighs. "Death can't be solved by anything."

"Can we not talk about this?"

"We have to," George says. "Because I need you to know that people die. Some of them are taken away from us before their time. Lucy wasn't – thank God." Fred lifts an eyebrow at his father's use of the word  _God_. It might be the first time he has ever heard George say it. "But some people are. You'll know people who will die. Some of the deaths will even seem unfair to you. But I need you to be able to live your life, even if that happens."

Fred's hand clasps the mug so tight he is afraid it might shatter. "Alright," he says. He will say anything to stop talking about this.

George sighs again. "Death – it can't be fixed with money," he repeats. "Not everything can."

Fred blinks at his father. "I know that, dad."

"I know you do," George says. "But you also need to come to terms with it – as a person." He looks keenly at his son. "And death is never an easy thing to come to terms with. Believe me. I know."

The warm glow of Lucy's victory over illness stays with him, nearly as long as his father's words, and the discomfiting feeling that he will, one day, one difficult day, have to learn to accept them.


	5. Forgive and Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for an alley-way mugging (which means some violence). And some smoking happenings and although I do not condone this behaviour, I did adore writing this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: Belongs to Ms. Rowling, as do Quidditch, all the Weasleys and the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

_Molly_

Her parents were boring. It was a fact that she had established long ago; they were as dull as bricks. They were plain and they were simple and they were rule-following, law-abiding wizards and witches. But most importantly, they were good. Good parents, good citizens, good people.

That was before.

Now, Molly is not sure of anything, least of all her parents' goodness. Her mother, to be fair, has not much to do with it. A Hogwarts student of strictly average capabilities, taken out of the school and therefore, extremely uninvolved in any activities to do with the war. But her father is a different story.

She remembers reading accounts of the war during History of Magic (paying no attention to Binns, naturally), and finding, with growing horror, that her father is indeed the man that many of her classmates have accused him of being. She had been seething as she stepped off the train that Christmas, but managed to maintain civility until behind closed doors.

"You walked out on your family?" she recalls demanding that night at dinner.

Percy flinches at the fury in his daughter's voice. "Molly, you have to understand-"

"No," she seethes. "I understand perfectly." Audrey glances between her husband and daughter, not knowing what to say and Lucy is watching with wide eyes. "I understand what kind of man you are. Somebody who runs out on their family when they need him."

" _Molly_ ," Percy says, an utterly appalled expression on his face. And it hurts her to know that she put that expression there, but it frightens her more than any other emotion she has that he is not the father she loves and adores.

But she does not know how to express this, so instead she says bitterly, "Don't speak to me." And she commands more authority and respect as a Head Girl than he ever did as a Head Boy. She knows how to give an order.

* * *

"What exactly are you fighting with your dad about?" Albus asks. He is four full years younger than her; only thirteen, but Molly can be sure that he will not snicker at her, or tell her that she is being ridiculous. Molly draws a deep breath and puts the cigarette to her lips. "Head Girl," Albus admonishes with a laugh, and covers her hand with his own and takes away the offending object, flicking it away into the grass.

"That was  _mine_ ," Molly says irritably.

Albus shrugs. "I don't like smoking."

"I'm not forcing you to."

"When I sit next to someone who smokes, they do it for me."

Molly shoves her cousin; sends him sprawling in the grass. "You're lucky you didn't set your father's garden on fire."

Albus does not move from where he lies. "Dad would get over it. It's mum you don't want to cross when it comes to the garden." Molly smiles at this and turns back to look at the house. James is sitting by his bedroom window, a book open on his knee. She waves up to get his attention. He spots her out of the corner of his eye and lifts a hand in return greeting. "So come on, then," Albus says. "What's got you all fired up?"

"My dad walked out on the family during the war," Molly tells him.

Albus turns his head to look at her. "Yep?"

Molly blinks at him. "Don't tell me you already knew."

Albus frowns. "Of course I already knew. Everybody already knew."

Molly cannot remember ever being more shocked. "How did I reach seventeen years and  _not_  know?"

Albus is silent for a moment. "To be honest, I just assumed you did know." Molly glares. "None of us were going to mention it to you, were we?" Albus defends against her silent rebuke. "It's not exactly a polite topic of conversation."

Molly folds her arms. "Seventeen years I spend thinking that this family is far too open about uncomfortable topics only to discover that it's a lie. Honestly, this is unbelievable."

A car pulls up into the driveway and Ron ducks out of the driver seat. "Hello, you two," he greets, slamming it shut and making his way towards the towards. "Your dad in?" he asks Albus.

"Yep," Albus says with a lazy wave. "You haven't locked the car door, Uncle Ron." Ron gestures at his nephew in acknowledgement, turns back towards the car and aims his key at it. The noise of the lock reaches Molly's ears. Albus has a funny look in his eye. "Do you want my help?" he mutters to Molly. When she nods, he turns a smile on their uncle. "Hey, Uncle Ron?" Ron turns to them.

"Yes?" Ron asks. "Hi, Mol." She smiles wanly in return.

"You know when you, dad and Aunt Hermione were living in a tent?" Albus says and Ron leans against the fence and nods. "You left at one point." Another nod. "Why did you leave?"

Ron gives Albus a slightly sharp look, as if trying to ascertain the source of the question, but Al's countenance is utterly smooth. Molly refrains from rolling her eyes because even though to her, it seems a little transparent, she does want to hear her uncle's answer. "Well," Ron begins. "It's difficult to explain, but I think it really just came down to the fact that I was a bit insecure back then, which made it difficult for me to cope with the pressure. And besides, Harry had always gotten all the attention, and your Aunt Hermione's….well, your Aunt Hermione. So I suppose I felt as if I wasn't good enough, which made me angry. And that is always dangerous, especially at a young age." Ron eyes his nephew. "Why do you ask?"

Molly sees Albus slide her a look, so swift that she nearly misses it. Then, he looks up at their uncle with an innocent expression that Molly is convinced is the reason nobody in the family ever denies Albus anything. "Just getting some perspective."

Ron still looks suspicious but grins. "Uh huh. Ok. Behave, you two. Don't go getting yourselves into trouble now."

As he heads towards the house, Molly can't help responding in a slightly dry tone. "Uncle Ron, have you  _met_  me?"

* * *

"You didn't think you were as good as them," Molly says as she stalks into the living room. "You felt insecure and that's why you left."

Percy looks startled at her sudden arrival, and eyes her warily. Molly knows that he is expecting the fiery rebuke of the previous day, but they both know that her temper flares like a fuse but cools like hot tongs in ice water. "Unfortunately not," he says lightly, and Molly doesn't understand how he can be so  _casual_  about it. "I didn't feel like I wasn't as good; I felt I was better." He sees Molly's frosty stare, and hastens to explain. "I felt that a lot when I was at school – I had good grades, I was made Prefect, I was Head Boy, I got a job immediately out of Hogwarts that was both respectable and honestly, quite well paid."

This does nothing to lessen Molly's rage. "So because you were getting paid more, you thought you were better?"

Percy is quiet for a moment. "Molly, you'll notice that in our family, the kids come in twos or threes."

This throws her off her rampaging scent for a moment. "Yes?"

Percy puts down his newspaper and sighs. "When you are a child in a group of seven, there are certain things you miss out on." He notices her standing there, red hair tied neatly into a plait, glaring down at him. "Want a seat?"

"No."

He sighs again. "Your mother and I have tried to give you the best of everything. And as much as I love your grandmother and grandfather, I think it's fair to say that I did not have the best of everything."

Molly hears herself gasp without even knowing she is doing it. "How dare you say that," she hisses. "Grandma Molly and Grandpa Arthur gave you so much." She is extremely proud to be her grandmother's namesake.

"I'm not saying they didn't-"

"And besides," Molly continues stiffly. "You might not have had the best  _things_ , but you had a lot of love. And that's the best  _thing_."

"Quite right," Percy says readily. "But the Ministry was  _my_  thing. And I'd never really had a thing before. So that, coupled with the fact that I was a bit of an idiot – alright, I very big idiot," he amends as Molly lifts a pointed eyebrow. "That made me really reluctant to give it up."

Molly folds her arms. "It doesn't fit," she says finally. Percy frowns at her, puzzled. "You've always seemed like you love the family so much."

"I do love the family."

"You don't leave the people you love," Molly says.

Percy slides a little lower in his chair and tilts his head back onto the back of the chair, covering his face with his hands. It the most displaced Molly can remember seeing her father being, at least in the last few years. "Molly, it isn't that simple. People…they're complicated. I can't really justify it." Molly gives no reply, but looks up at the mantelpiece above which hangs a picture of herself, Lucy and her parents. When she glances back, Percy has rested his hands on the armrests and is examining her. "That isn't good enough for you, is it?"

She hates that he knows her as well as she knows herself, angry with him as she is. "No," she admits.

* * *

The day that Lucy graduates, Molly takes her out for lunch. Lucy does not leave Hogwarts as Head Girl, but she does have six N.E. , a first in duelling and a confidence that Molly herself envies. "Happy?" she asks her sister. "Sad? Jubilant? Miserable?"

Lucy purses her lips thoughtfully. "Nothing." Molly takes a bite of her quiche ("Honestly, Molly, it's lunch – who orders a  _quiche_?") and waits. "It seems like a bit of an anticlimax to seven years of my life."

"It always does," Molly says knowledgeably, slurping up some of her milkshake. "These are bloody  _marvellous_."

Lucy sips some of her own. "How are you getting on with dad?"

Molly is surprised by the question. "Fine." Lucy gives her a doubtful look and Molly shrugs defensively. "It's fine. Honestly."

"Right." Lucy radiates scepticism, which Molly finds ironic, because she herself has always been the more sceptical of the two.

"Don't look at me like that."

Lucy is having a salad – according to her, a good change from the heavy English meals of Hogwarts. "Why not?" she asks, gently, frankly. "Who else is going to?" Molly resists the urge to stick out her tongue. "Are you still cross with him?"

"I'm not cross with dad," Molly says with a sigh. "Honestly, I'm  _not_ ," she adds as Lucy slides her yet another look. "He's just two different people to me, now." At her sister's inquisitive glance, she explains. "There's dad – the Ministry worker who wears horrible jumpers and gives us great books for Christmas. And then there's Percy Weasley, the man who walked out on his family and sided with some hideously unethical people." Molly shrugs. "They're different."

Lucy stabs her fork into her salad. "But they're not two different people."

Molly finishes off her milkshake and orders another. "They might as well be." She catches Lucy staring once again. "Well, how do you reconcile it?"

Lucy rolls her eyes. "I accept something that you just can't." Molly lifts her eyebrows. "I accept that people can change."

Molly makes a face. "It's a lot to change in a short time."

Lucy laughs. She has a prettier laugh than Molly. "I wonder what it means when you don't like your parents."

Stung, Molly replies, "I like dad."

Lucy's response silences Molly entirely. "Not all of him."

* * *

"What is wrong with me?" Molly asks, flopping down onto the sofa. Hugo looks up sharply as his books spill onto the floor. She spies  _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_  among some other thick tomes that Molly is sure are not mandated Hogwarts books.

"Hello," Hugo says slowly, eyeing Molly. "Nice to see you too."

Molly ignores the startled overtures and reaches into the pile of books at their feet. "Winston Churchill's biography?" she asks, turning it over, then selects another – a collection of poet's letters. "What on earth are you doing with these?" she asks.

Hugo speaks again in that dry, patient tone of voice. "Reading them."

Molly makes to smack her youngest cousin over the head and he ducks, laughter in his face. "Alright, smart-mouth."

"So something's wrong with you?" Hugo says absently, shifting the parchment in his lap. Molly, rather respectfully, does not try to catch a glimpse of what he is writing, but she is willing to put money on the fact that it is not a Charms or Herbology essay.

"Last year, when Lucy finished Hogwarts, she said something to me." Molly folds her arms. "She said that I don't like dad."

It is a rather abrupt way to announce her problem, but Hugo considers it as if it is a long explanation. Then, he says, "You've got no obligation to."

"Do you think she's right?" Molly wants to know. Like Albus, Hugo is quite young, but Molly does not have the quiet introspection that her younger cousins are blessed with.

Hugo presses his lips together, then shakes his head. "Not really."

"But I don't like what he did."

"You smoke," Hugo says. "I don't like that, but I still quite like you."

Molly laughs at this. It is her Uncle George who had taught her to smoke. "Breathe in," he had told her and she did, and then coughed violently. He had laughed. Percy had been utterly furious when he found out. "Oh, relax, Perce," George had said. "She needs an outlet – she's  _your_  kid, after all."

"Point," Molly tells Hugo. "But smoking isn't really an ethical issue, is it?" Hugo shrugs noncommittally. The television is on, playing a funny television show ("a sitcom," she remembers her Aunt Hermione explaining to her). Hugo seems rather unperturbed by the noise and laughter emitting from it, but it rather irritates Molly, who is accustomed to the comforting silence of her own home.

"It's so easy for Lucy," Molly admits, and Hugo folds his hands and watches her neutrally. "She says people change – she just accepts that dad was horrible, and now he's not."

"Well, people do change," Hugo says without much inflection.

"But why can't I accept it?" Molly asks, almost desperately.

Hugo lets the silence stretch on for a few moments, then draws breath, looking a little like a man about to deliver a death sentence. "I'm about to tell you something about yourself. Do not hex me."

Molly stifles a grin. "Alright."

"I know you like yourself," Hugo says. "Which is great and surprisingly rare in our generation. But in the same line of thought, I don't think you'll ever be able to dislike your father entirely, because you're quite similar to him." Hugo eyes his cousin, waiting for the temper to rise.

Molly takes a deep breath. "We're not alike."

Hugo waves a hand. "I'm not saying you'd do those things that your dad did. But if I'm to be honest, you're a bit…square."

Molly's mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"

"You follow rules, you hate ambiguity, you can't deal with things that don't fit into a planner, you see everything absolutely in black and white – actually," Hugo says thoughtfully. "You're also quite like mum. Logical. Stubborn."

Molly lifts an eyebrow. It is not the first time that she has been compared to Aunt Hermione, but it is the first time it has been in such a negative light. "That's not very nice," she comments lightly.

Hugo looks surprised. "Why not?" Molly gestures helplessly. "Mol," he says seriously, leaning forward, and Molly watches her fourteen-year-old cousin disappear. "Lily's fourteen years old. She nearly smokes more than you do. Louis has hated every job he's had since he left Hogwarts. He has commitment issues. James is impulsive and speaks without thinking, which can result in him saying some things that are quite unkind." He shrugs. "Everybody has…extreme personality quirks. It's just who they are. It's just who  _you_  are. There's nothing  _wrong_  with it."

"You're saying I don't adapt well," Molly says flatly, ignoring his attempt to comfort her.

Hugo, seeing that she is not to be diverted, sits back. "I'm saying that you and your father share certain personality traits. And that maybe, that can help you understand why he did the things he did." Hugo cracks a sardonic smile. "Lord knows you won't just accept somebody's word."

Molly hears the unspoken line.  _Your father never did_.

* * *

The weather reports have all indicated a thunderstorm, but Molly still feels some measure of alarm as she exits the office and sees the rapidly swelling sky. She clasps the folders she is holding closer to her chest and increases her speed. "Blimey," she says as the raindrops begin to splatter around her.

She does not usually stay this late at work, but this week there is a particularly tricky meeting with ambassadors from France and Germany the following week, and she wants to sort out her memos and her notes before they arrive.  _Perfectionist_ , her sister's voice whispers in her ear. There is an Apparition point at the end of the next street and instead of continuing on her way, she ducks into a small alleyway that provides slightly more cover, and leads to the same point in a more roundabout fashion.  _All roads lead to Rome_ , Molly is thinking, somewhat randomly, when she feels it.

There is a presence behind her that brushes her elbow, giving her a moment of warning. Immediately, she drops all the files and they scatter at her feet; she ducks instinctively and whips around with a closed fist. Her hand comes into contact with bone and she hears a howl of pain. She whips her wand out (Statue of Secrecy be damned) and hits without aiming.

Her first Stunner hits a solid body, the kickback from the spell is obvious. Lucy might have been duelling captain at Hogwarts, but Molly is no slacker either. She is still blinking furiously (the files are sodden and useless at her feet) and sees two shapes emerge through the raindrops. She aims a spell at the one on the right and jabs helplessly at the left. The jab seems to meet flesh but the first spell seems not to deter anybody (she later realises that she missed), so instead, she casts a Patronus charm. The stork is gone before she can even give it a message, and she is not sure where it is going or if it will simply fizzle out in the silver rain. She slashes her wand in front of her again, hoping that non-verbal magic will do some damage.

But arms close around her from the back and yank her wand from her hand ("Get that stick offher.") and she realises that this is no wizard attack but a Muggle assault. She opens her mouth and screams at the top of her voice, but even she thinks that the chances of someone hearing her over the now-torrential rain are extremely low. "Be quiet, you little bitch," she hears spat at her and she laughs because honestly, do they think she's just going to do as they say?

A hand clamps over her mouth and she bites immediately, tasting blood beneath her skin. More hands tug at her, pulling on her clothes, clashing against her bone, and she kicks out, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows it is useless. Still, she wants to go down kicking, which she does once again and grunts in satisfaction as she throws one of the men back. "Stay still," one of the men hisses and Molly wants to know  _do they really expect her to obey_?

What happens next is an honest blur. The man holding her from behind loosens his grip and for a wild moment, Molly thinks that he is going to let her go. But then she feels him sliding hands into pockets and understands that he is looking for money. A shame that she does not have any, or she would give it to them willingly. Nobody is going to come but she is going to screams anyway.

But just before anything else can happen, the man freezes. The hand is suddenly gone; the grip slackens and she leaps away immediately. There are lights flashing all around her, too close to be lightning. There are noises and shouts that are too quiet, and she sees that the men are being drawn off.

Molly's last coherent thought, and one that always makes her giggle afterwards, is that all of her folders and notes can't just be left lying there in the little cobblestone alley, and she falls to her knees to gather them up.

She can't remember standing up again.

* * *

"Molly," she hears a voice say demandingly. "Molly, can you hear me?"

The rain is still falling onto her face, but lighter now. She blinks; her hand meets wet, crumbling paper. There is another tapping on her face; more insistent, more comforting. "What?" she groans. Her head hurts.

"Molly, look at me. Do you know who I am?"

She blinks harder and squints upwards. The sky still looks bruised; as bruised as she feels. The tops of the buildings are just in view. Green eyes, bright and frightened, look down at her. "Albus? What are you doing here?"

"I got your Patronus."

"What Patronus?"

Albus is staring at her. "Your Patronus. I was just a few streets away, walking home. It practically attacked me to get my attention; I followed it here."

This makes sense to Molly grammatically but not so much logically. "Ok," she says. Then, "Can we go inside? I'm getting kind of wet."

Albus mutters something under his breath and puts his hand on her wrist. "I'm going to Apparate you back to mine, ok?"

"Why can't I go to my own home?" Molly asks, bemused. Why are they out in the rain?

"It's a better idea for me to keep an eye on you tonight, I think."

"You can't Apparate crouched down," she points out, but Albus only rolls his eyes and does it anyway.

* * *

Albus phones Victoire, who shows up about a minute later, still wearing her Healer's robes. When Albus tells what happened, Vic swears so badly that Molly feels compelled to put her hands over her ears. "You didn't have to do that," Molly protests. The attack is starting to come back to her. She remembers enough, at least, to know that she has not been badly physically harmed except where she knocked her head as she fell.

Victoire soundly ignores her and badgers Albus with questions – is Molly hurt? Did the men manage to hit her anywhere? Where did they come from? Why did they attack her? Did they try to take her anywhere? When did Molly leave work–

"I don't  _know_ , Vic," Albus says, irritation colouring his voice. "I only arrived to Stun them."

"Did you Obliviate them?" Victoire asks sharply.

"Yes," Albus says, then adds, "But I left the fear." Vic blinks at this and even Molly herself is not sure whether he means it as a dark joke or is being genuine about his spellwork.

Vic turns to Molly, with an expression that made Molly glad Albus didn't have anything breakable on hand. "So what happned?" Molly tells her, using quick and brisk sentences. She has no desire to relive the experience in an emotional state. By the end, Vic is breathing heavily. "Molly, did he…did he  _touch_  you anywhere?"

Molly closes her eyes, a shiver running down her spine. "No," she says quietly and they all breathe a sigh of relief.

Vic, fingers locked together says, forcibly calm, "Are you alright?"

Molly nods. "I'm fine-"

Victoire shoots her a dubious look. "Well. Al, we need notify an authority, or-"

"I phoned the police and waited there until they came," is Albus' reply.

Molly is confused. "You did?"

Albus glances at her. "You were unconscious. They wanted to drive you to the hospital, but I said that we knew a doctor. We're supposed to give official statements, but-"

"You can do that," Vic tells Albus.

Molly grits her teeth. Vic has always been a cousin to whom Molly had always looked up, but she hates fussiness, of which the older woman is often guilty. "I'm not an invalid. And I feel fine. I can give a statement."

Victoire hangs around for the rest of the evening, checking vitals and asking questions and making tea, and Molly is grateful to have her there, but quite glad when she leaves. "I told you," Vic murmurs to Al, who shifts slightly to block Molly's view. She still hears the rest of Vic's statement, though. "You've got to take it  _easy._ "

Albus pulls a stool up and sits by Molly's head where she is lying on the sofa. Molly eyes him; his casual posture, his neat clothing. "It occurs to me," she says slowly, "that I haven't said thank you."

Albus shakes his head. "You don't need to."

"But I want to," Molly persists. "Thank you. I honestly am fine – but I might not have been." Albus squeezes her hand. "Don't tell my parents, will you?"

Albus laughs. "I think it's a bit late for that. After all, Vic's already seen you, and she's probably told Teddy who will have told James or Dom or Lily, who will have told their parents, who will have told the entire family." Molly groans. "Oh, they're not so bad," Albus says. "This probably sounds redundant, but everyone cares. That's the reason they fuss."

They sit there in silence. Albus gets up a few times – to renew the tea, to light the fire, to make up his bed for Molly ("Mol, the day you rescue me from an attack in a stone alleyway, I will let you give me your bed, I promise."). "Shall I help you to the bed?" Albus asks with a smile. Molly sits up and the world spins for a moment but rights itself quickly enough that she knows it is just from lying down for too long.

It surprises her that Albus has a double bed – it seems quite indulgent for Albus' character. "We could both sleep in it," she points out.

But Albus shakes his head. "I take up the whole bed. I have a tendency to move about. You wouldn't get any sleep." He places a mug on the bedside table. "Molly…" he says hesitantly. "Don't bite my head off but are you sure you're alright? You're reacting to this very calmly."

Molly clutches at her blanket. "Something really bad could have happened," she says finally. "But it didn't. I really am fine." Albus still looks doubtful but relents. "And," she adds. "That's thanks to you. So, thank you," she tells him again. Once again, Albus shakes his head. "Why…" The question seems silly in her mind but he is looking at her with sympathetic liquid green eyes. "Why do you think they attacked me?"

It is the first time that night that she sees surprise on Albus' face. "Why do you think there's a reason?" Molly says nothing. "Molly…" Albus clenches his fists, then relaxes. "I don't think…There's ever a reason for this kind of cruelty."

"No," Molly murmurs.

Albus looks as if he wants to say something else, but turns to go, and changes his mind several times. When he does speak, it startles her. Albus has never been one to step where he should not. For the first time that evening, she notices how pale he is, although it might just be the shadow on his face. "You know, Molly. There isn't a reason for everything."

* * *

Percy's temper, which is rarely seen by the children or even by his wife, ignites into a blazing fire when he hears the news. Molly winces at his shout of outrage, Lucy looks on in disbelief, Audrey has a hand over her mouth. No amount of reassurance that she is  _fine_  makes her parents calm.

Until Lucy gets sick. Then, the temper surrounding her attack seems like a candle to a dragon's flame. Percy is less angry than frightened and sad and lost and confused. One bad night, Molly goes for some water and finds her father crying over the sink. She steps forward to take his hands, but something about it – Percy, tall, thin and encased in oversized pyjamas face in his hands and sobbing while moonlight from the window in front of him streams over his hunched shoulders – that makes her stop and go back upstairs.

"What's wrong?" Lucy asks and Molly nearly slips in surprise. Lucy is pale and standing in her half-open doorway. Past her, Molly can see Parker asleep in the bed.

"Nothing," Molly replies, but as she lies awake in bed that night, the scene of her father crying replays itself in her mind.

It has been quite a long time since she has spent more than one or two minutes considering the issue of the man, her father. But lying there, in the dark, Molly recalls all the conflict and hurt that she has gone through over it. She still cannot reconcile the sharp, pointy, untrusting man in the war stories with her gentle, understanding parent.

But there, in her bed, with an ill sister in the next room and their father crying downstairs in the kitchen, what hits her with a force that she is surprised does not move the bed is that she does not care. She does not care about what her father has done. She does not care that he had been a questionable character. She does not care about anything except that her father is as devastated as the rest of them about Lucy's situation.

It is a terrible time to realise that even though it is not for her to forgive, she has forgiven her father for all the transgressions he has committed.

_That's called family_ , a voice that is remarkably like Hugo's murmurs to her.

And at one of the many parties they throw, Molly goes over to her father with two glasses of lemonades and no idea what she is going to say. "Thanks," Percy says, reaching out to cuddle Molly into his side.

Molly stares at her shoes and thinks how silly it was to assume, as a child, that adults found it easier to put together the right words.  _I forgive you_ , seems incredibly silly. And yet, nothing else seems direct enough; nothing at all seems too little. Finally, Molly opens her mouth and waits to discover what her subconscious wants to say. Her subconscious, which has been boxed into a dark corner into the attic in her head for some long years, takes a while to awaken and emerge. But Percy waits patiently, and finally, words come out.

"If I can be even half the parent you are," she finds herself saying. "I think I will have done a pretty good job."

Percy's lips part in shock and delight, and the way he smiles at her makes her want to hug him wildly, but Molly does not think her father will appreciate if she spills lemonade all over them both. Instead, she smiles back and turns away to watch her cousins; all adults, all successful, all clever, all respected, tumbling all over each other like little puppies at the bottom of the garden.

There really is no reason for everything. In fact, in a strange moment of giddiness, Molly thinks that there may be no concrete reason for anything. But to forget a person's past because of nothing else than love and family – this is something that really needs no reason. Once again, the Hugo-like voice whispers in her mind.

_That's called forgiveness._


	6. All Good Things (Come to an End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In my mind, Dominique is a sparkle in the Weasley/Potter clan. She is generous and open-minded - qualities I find are often overlooked. I very much hope that this chapter puts her in general good graces. Enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: A few odd characters in this chapter are of my imagining, of who I am very proud, but the rest belong to Ms. Rowling.

_Dominique_

* * *

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,  
The flying cloud, the frosty light;  
The year is dying in the night;  
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.  
Ring out the old, ring in the new,  
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:  
The year is going, let him go;  
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

~Alfred, Lord Tennyson

* * *

She spent her entire Hogwarts career sandwiched between two (wonderful, clever, beautiful, her favourite people in the world) siblings, with the reputation of a daring werewolf and a stunning Veela running in her blood.

She graduates with a handful of N.E. , with more gladness than she cares to admit, with a healthy amount of melancholy and nostalgia. Really, the graduation is Molly's victory and Dom is perfectly happy to let Molly shine while she herself laughs and jokes with her youngest cousins and sneaks them too much Butterbeer.

Shortly afterwards, Dom cuts her own hair with a pair of old scissors and her mother, after gasping with despair, styles it into a neat bob. She waves goodbye to her parents, she hitchhikes across Scotland, she cuts her own way through the world. It is not until Louis writes her a long letter, including a note at the end saying that Fleur is, as he puts it,  _freaking out_ , that she comes home.

"So what now?" Victoire asks as they lie on the rug in Shell Cottage.

"I'm not sure," Dom says in reply.

"Dom," Vic says seriously. "Do you even know what you're going to do tomorrow?"

Dom grins. "Nope."

Vic, halfway through Healer training, with a wonderful boyfriend and a sensible fashion sense, makes a noise in the back of her throat. "Aren't you scared?"

Dom considers this, then responds with equal gravity and delight. "Yeah."

* * *

She gets a job in a muggle pub – it is the best thing she has ever seen. No cups of coffees stirring themselves, no chairs stacking themselves, no duels in the hours of the night; only wood-panelled ceiling and low-hanging lights and glasses hanging from racks overhead and fairy lights strung over the windows and a bar that cannot be cleaned with magic and is therefore stained and cracked and covered with substances and stories.

It is her first ever job and she adores it completely.

Two months in, Rob, the owner, a young man with dark eyes and a floppy fringe, is harbouring a not-so-secret fancy for her; Bridgitte and William, who share her shifts, become her closest friends.

She introduces Bridge and Will to various family members – Louis charms them beyond imagining. ("Christ, Dom, no  _wonder_  Rob's good looks never turned your head," Will says, awed. "You grew up around  _that_."

"He's my  _brother_ ," Dom says, disgusted. "And he's not  _that_  attractive.")

Victoire and Teddy find them incredibly amusing and Hugo is absolutely enthralled. Bridgitte is studying a degree of literature and creative writing, and is the first person who is able to understand Hugo's talks about writing technique and literary idols, and to return thoughts and feeling. Maybe Dom reflects, this is why the people Hugo is always babblings about – Shakespeare, Dickens and John Steinbeck, stop being his heroes, and are replaced instead by Bridgitte.

* * *

Vic and Teddy sit with Dom after her friends depart the café. "They're really cool, Dom," Vic says. "Although they say a lot of muggle things that I don't understand. And you seem really happy."

Teddy appraises her, sitting back in his chair. "You just fall on your feet everywhere you go, don't you?"

Dom blinks. "Do I?"

Vic answers. "You do."

* * *

In the pub, Will is in charge of clearing tables, Bridgitte is tasked with serving the food and drinks and Dom looks after the bar. It is the perfect arrangement; sunny, relatable Bridgitte taking orders and telling jokes; gentle, sympathetic Will taking away empty plates, listening to complaints, patting miserable late-night drinkers on the shoulder; laughing, wild Dom serving drinks and glaring at terrible flirts.

Will is also supposed to be monitoring violence but on Dom's fourth evening, two men erupt into shouting, shoving, slapping. And Dom takes one look at Will's terrified face and puts her cleaning rag down on the bar.

Stunning, or even slowing down people, is more difficult in a pub full of muggles than in a pub in wizarding London, but she has never been one to shy away from a challenge.

Both her friends are staring at her in awe as she manhandles out the two drunken men into the street. "How did you do that?" Bridgitte demands.

Dom thinks she is flirting quite heavily with breaking the Statue of Secrecy but she winks and says anyway, "Magic."

* * *

"You're working in a pub?" Scorpius looks alternatively enchanted and horrified. "A muggle pub?"

Dom is delighted with his reaction. "Yes, a pub; a muggle pub."

"Blimey," Scorpius says with an awed voice, and Dom can see Ron's influence seeping into him through Albus and Rose. "That's amazing."

Dom slides her sunglasses down over her eyes. They are seated at an outdoor café that is a particular favourite of Dom's. (She, Bridgitte and Will have café-hopped all across London; this café makes the best iced coffee, a muggle delight that Dom cannot believe she has gone her entire life without). "I think most people would say it was pretty mundane."

Scorpius dunks a spoon into his hot chocolate and whistles. "Do you have any idea what my parents would say if I went to work in a pub?"

Dom smiles. "Your parents are alright."

"Yeah, they're alright," Scorpius admits, because he has a grandfather to compare his father to. "But they still don't really approve of anything fun, do they?" He slides her a look. "Is working in the pub fun?"

Dom laughs aloud. "Oh, yeah," she says and a wistful expression crosses Scorpius' face. "Want to come and visit? My shift's supposed to start soon anyway."

Scorpius shoots her a look. "I'm only fifteen."

Dom leans across the table abruptly to ruffle his hair while he squeaks in protest. "I'll supervise you. Promise."

* * *

Scorpius' jaw nearly hits the floor when he enters the pub. His eyes travel from the bar to the windows and back rapidly. It must be strange for him, Dom thinks, to see a pub so different from the Leaky Cauldron – so small and quaint and cosy. "Wow," he says in a faint voice.

Dom pushes Scorpius' head slightly like she does with Louis. "Calm down, Malfoy; just a pub, remember?"

"It's amazing," he says fervently, and Dom interprets this to mean  _It's different_.

Rob brushes past them, glancing briefly at Scorpius curiously. "Clocking in early, Dom?"

Dom tows Scorpius towards the bar. "Just showing my little cousin's boyfriend the ropes."

Rob places some empty glasses on the bar and looks keenly at Scorpius. "You looking for a summer job or something?"

"Er…no," Scorpius says, startled. His posh London accent shows immediately in contrast to Dom's softer one, and Rob's eyebrows lift.

"How old are you again?"

"Fifteen," Scorpius says hesitantly as if he is worried his age will make Rob throw him off the premises. But Rob is the most laid-back boss possible, and only nods.

"Interesting accent," he comments before disappearing into the kitchen.

Scorpius turns to Dom immediately. "Why did he think I was looking for a job?"

Dom sets her sunglasses atop her head and grins at him. "Most kids your age are."

"They are?" Scorpius asks, alarmed.

"Muggle kids," Dom qualifies just as her two partners in crime burst through the door.

"Dom," Will says, laughing so hard he nearly cannot speak. "You have to come out back – there's two teenage boys trying to smoke but you can tell they're on the verge of dying- oh." He stops as he notices Scorpius. "Hi."

"My cousin Rose's boyfriend," Dom says, pushing Scorpius forward slightly. "This is Will," she points, then moves her hand to where Bridgitte is looking over Will's shoulder. "And Bridgitte. We work together."

"Hello," Scorpius says, and introduces himself.

"Cool name," Will says easily and Scorpius' eyes go round at the careless acknowledgement of the Malfoy name. "Are you helping out today?"

"He's just dropping by," Dom says, leaning against the bar. "I'm trying to convince my family that I'm actually cool." And the other two laugh easily. Scorpius watches their easy exchange with something akin to wonder. "You'd better head off, though," Dom tells him. "Or you'll be late to see Rose."

Scorpius is jolted back into action, gives Dom a quick hug goodbye and heads for the door, taking one last look around the little pub of which Dom is so proud. As soon as the door swings shut behind him, Bridgitte turns to her, tying an apron around her own waist. "Look – is every person in your family unreasonably attractive?"

Dom grins. Vic, Louis, Teddy, Scorpius – they are either Veela or Blacks. "It's a genetic advantage," she says, and then they get to work.

* * *

Increasingly, and because they do not know about her practicing spells in secret, daring herself to more and more obvious magic in the pub, her family jokes about her becoming a muggle.

Technically, this is not true, but of course when she meets the person that she has always dreamed of meeting, he is a muggle. Hikaru Southwark lives four doors down from the house opposite the pub, and comes in once a day, orders a cup of outrageously sweetened coffee and reads his newspaper before departing into the dusk. For two months, he sits in the little booth furthest away from the door until one afternoon, he appears at the bar in front of her. "Hi."

Dom is so shocked that she nearly drops the glass she is polishing, but her Quidditch-honed reflexes (while not as sharp as Albus') save it from smashing to pieces at her feet. "Nice catch," he compliments and she looks sharply at him. He has soft features and dark eyes which seem to be smiling although he looks quite serious.

"Thanks," she says. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Coffee," he tells her. "No milk. Three sugar."

Dom arches an eyebrow and flicks her eyes towards Bridgitte but it is a Tuesday and the pub is almost empty; her friend is leaning against one of the tables, having a lazy chat with one of the regular customers. So she collects a mug and pours coffee, adds three sugars ("Disgusting," she mutters to herself, and she hears a sound behind her akin to a stifled laugh.) and sets it down in front of him. "There you are."

"Thank you," he says and takes a mouthful. Dom picks up her glass but notices his slight grimace out of the corner of his eye.

"Not good?" she asks, because honestly, how can she mess up  _coffee_?

"It's fine," he tells her. Then, noticing her dubious expression, admits, "Bit too sweet." Dom throws up her free hand. "Oh, for-" She cuts herself off before she says Merlin's name. And he laughs. "Don't worry about it."

Dom eyes him suspiciously. "Don't you usually sit over there?" She gestures in the general direction of his booth.

"Ah," he says. "Yes. But. I have noticed that you do the crossword." It is true that when the pub is quiet, Dom spreads the newspaper over the bar and pens the answers to the crosswords in. She has been doing them since a young age with her mother's mother, who thinks they are an excellent diversion from marriage.

"That's correct."

"Well, I'm stuck with this one." He brings the newspaper up from his lap. "Mind giving me a hand?"

Dom shrugs easily. "Sure." He points to the clue that he is stuck on. Dom stares. "You've not written anything down." He glances up at her and then points insistently again at the clue. Dom makes a face but bends down to look at it. It is a tricky clue, but she gives a guess.

"Can't be," he says. "Fourth letter needs to be an  _'e'_."

Dom blinks. "What?"

He draws a finger across the intersecting words. "See?" Dom looks down at the page, and then back up at the man's serious face, which has suddenly turned thoughtful. "But…I think…yes…I've got it." His eyes run over the crossword. "And that was my last one." He folds it up and tosses the paper down into the bin. "Thanks."

"But you didn't write any of the answers down," Dom points out.

He shrugs. "Got it in here." He taps his head.

Dom always recalls the moment of clarity – straightening up and thinking to herself ' _He can do the crosswords in his head_.' She is amazing at crosswords, but this is something she has never even thought to attempt. It is the first time in a long time that she has felt so impressed or outraged about anything.

It doesn't occur to her at the time that he is purposefully showing off.

* * *

On New Year's Eve, she conjures a bar into her grandparents' backyard, procures numerous bottles of various liquids and plays bartender all night while her father, Uncle Charlie and Uncle George light up at the sky with fireworks.

"Can I get a rum and coke?" a voice asks and she turns to see Scorpius grinning at her.

Rolling her eyes at him, she pours him a glass of coke sans rum (which was, in fact, introduced to him by Bridgitte) and pushes it across to him. "Not with your family?"

Scorpius shakes his head. "They've gone to France. I said I'd rather stay here. Got some school stuff I need to be doing."

Dom lets her gaze slide rather obviously over to Rose, who is seated, flushed and laughing, with Albus on one of the lawn chairs. "School stuff, huh?" she says slyly. "Well, make sure you do it with respect and love, or else you'll have a lot of people to answer to."

Scorpius frowns, turns and then catches the joke. Downing his coke in one go, he glares at her with barely-suppressed laughter. "Disgusting, Dominique Weasley. You're a poor influence on me." But he squeezes her hand. "Happy New Year."

She salutes him and goes back to her little makeshift bar. "Any chance of eggnog?" Bill is suddenly right behind her and she turns with a little surprise. He puts his hands in his pockets and grins at her.

Dom makes a face at her father, her hands already automatically concocting the drink. She has made so many eggnogs in the past couple of weeks that she thinks she could probably do it blindfolded whilst riding a Hippogriff. "You hate eggnog," she comments.

Bill shrugs and takes the proffered glass. "We miss you, you know. Your mother and I. You hardly come home anymore, although we certainly hear a lot about your friends from Vic and Louis. Why haven't we met them?"

Dom glances at her watch. Forty minutes to midnight. "Well, it's difficult, you know? They'd be pretty confused by the self-cleaning pots and pans, or the curse-breaking books we have on our shelves, or the gravestone we have out front for a House-Elf," she points out.

"We'd clear that all away," Bill suggests but Dom shakes her head.

"If they're going to meet you, it's going to be properly. It's not going to be a lie."

Bill leans against her little bar; it wobbles slightly and she glares jokingly. "I feel like I'm missing half your life – the fun half, evidently."

Dom shrugs. "Believe me; I'd love to introduce you. But I'm not going to do that until I figure out a way for it to be honest."

"You don't have to tell them right away," Bill points out.

"I don't like to lie to my friends," Dom says without any heat and reaches out. "And give me that glass – you are not fooling anybody."

Bill laughs. "It's quite good."

Dom rolls her eyes but gives her father a wild, one-armed hug. "Happy New Year,  _papa_."

He ruffles her hair. "Happy New Year, Dommie." She hits him in the chest for the terrible nickname but smiles all the same.

* * *

At fifteen minutes to midnight, she waves farewell to her family (not feeling terribly rude, because everyone not of age has been, rather redundantly, sent inside to bed and both Roxanne and Molly have vanished, no doubt to parties of their own) and Apparates to the bar.

She is always careful to appear in a small alleyway several streets away – after all, as her Uncle Harry is always saying, rather ironically in her opinion, it is better to be safe than sorry.

She approaches the bar. All the windows are ablaze with light, and the door is flung open welcomingly despite the chill in the air. The sound of laughter and drunken rowdiness is radiating from inside, but something stops Dom a few doors away. Quickly, she ducks up the steps of a block and leans against the wall of the top step in case Bridgitte or Rob or Will or anyone else should spot her and pull her inside.

It is true she doesn't like to lie to her friends; and they are more than friends inside the bar, but a strange kind of family – one that she has chosen and embraced. They know more about her than anyone outside of her blood family, and yet they do not know the biggest thing about her. She has met both Bridgitte's and Will's parents – the former's quite elderly but doting, the latter's absolutely mad in a unique sort of way but utterly charming nonetheless. To know one's parents, Dom muses on the top step of a random block in London, is to know one themselves. Excepting several cases, she adds to herself, thinking of Malfoy, and Harry's stories of his godfather.

All her thoughts are jumbled together and while she is trying to sort through them, her phone rings. She looks at the caller ID ( _Bridgitte Rolland_ ) and sees the time (five minutes to midnight and to the new year) but something makes her let it ring out. Briskly, it is followed by a text.  _Where are you? Are you alright? I know you're rubbish at phones, so just ring me when you get this._

Dom replaces the phone in her pocket.

She wants to go down to them; really she does, but she also remains where she is. After all, says a strange thought in her mind – she has been surrounded by people all her life. After Hogwarts, she had cut a path through the world separate from anyone else in her family, and ended up happier than she could have imagined. Why should she not carve her own way into the new year alone as well?

She sits herself down on the top step and wishes that she had brought a cigarette – but she has quit; it had been her previous new year's resolution, which had been made with Molly, criss-crossing hands like they had done in school. (Molly has most certainly not kept the resolution but Dom has forgiven her. It is difficult to stop.) Instead, now, she winds her fingers together and rests them on her lap, lowers her earmuffs so that she can hear the countdown, and waits.

_Ten_. She thinks of Victoire, long sleek hair dancing around her shoulders, eyes sparkling as she dances; or still and concerned and familiar as they lie together on a rug in front of the fire, like they have since childhood.

_Nine._ She thinks of Louis, his laugh, his life; his nimble hands on guitar strings, his fingers feverishly at work with ink and quill, inscribing a language of notes she will never understand.

_Eight._ She thinks of her parents, their love, their smiles, their quiet and peaceful life; one that is so much more cherished than anything Dom thinks she will ever know.

_Seven._ She imagines her family, their faces tipped up towards the sky, and feels lucky.

_Six._ It really has been the most wonderful year.

_Five._ Maybe she ought to have gone down to her friends.

_Four._  Who spends New Year's Eve alone?

_Three._ Too late.

_Two._ Breathe in. Last breath.

_One._  "Goodbye," Dom whispers aloud to the year. "And thank you."

" _Happy New Year!"_  erupts from around her – not just the bar a few doors down, but all around where pockets of people are spilling into the streets to watch the fireworks.

Dom stands, her hands in her coat pockets and looks up at the sky.  _Auld Lang Syne_  is playing somewhere – Louis had played and sung it one year when the clock changed the year around them, and the song still moves Dom immensely. Tears fill her eyes and blur the fireworks slightly, but they are beautiful. Dom takes the largest breath imaginable –  _first breath of the new year_ , she thinks, and although only seconds before, she imagined she could not have been more happy; she is now.

She closes her eyes and listens. Potential is everywhere around her, whizzing so fast that she can barely keep up with the accompanying emotions. Clean slate, clean everything; and Dom will build and build this year.  _Who knows_? she says to herself.  _Who knows what might happen?_ The new year feels shiny to her; brighter and more impatient than the last. Something might happen right now.

Right now, Dom repeats to herself, although she knows that she is simply giddy on fireworks and bubbly newness and the feeling of being alone. Right now, she thinks. Or now. Or-

"Hello."

She whips around, almost falling off the step, and two hands grip her just above the elbows and tow her back to solid ground. "Thank you," she said, disoriented. "I-" She stops as she recognises the sharp, dark eyes, crinkled with laughter.  _Crossword man_ , she thinks to herself. "Hello."

He releases her and takes a step back. "Hello, Dominique Weasley." She lifts an eyebrow at him. "Bar apron, nametag," he says by way of explanation. "I wasn't expecting to find you on my doorstep."

"Oh," Dom says. "I didn't know-"

"No, it's quite alright," he says cheerfully. "I was just coming out to see the revelry myself. It must be quite impressive." He looks over her shoulder at the crowds of people in the street. "And how was your New Year's Eve?"

"Lovely," Dom says. "Just lovely."

He looks down at her – he's quite tall, actually – and smiles without moving his lips. "They say it's quite a time of discovery," he says conversationally. "Discover anything?"

"That I'm extremely happy in my own company," Dom says truthfully, then her mouth drops open a little. "That is to say…er…I didn't mean…"

He laughs – he has quite a nice laugh too – and glances at her again. "Being comfortable when you're alone is good," he tells her. "But I think that, since it is the beginning of a new year, you might permit me to stand with you? I promise not to intrude."

"Intrude all you like," Dom says, blushing. "After all, it's your doorstep."

And he laughs again.

* * *

Inevitably, Bridgitte sees her and races up the steps, nearly knocking Dom off her feet. "Where have you been?" she demands, smelling of strawberries and champagne.

"Bit late," Dom replies, grinning. "And where have  _you_  been?"

Bridgitte looks a bit off kilter; starstruck and pleased and secretive all at once. "With Will." Dom lets her smile grow wider and suddenly, Bridgitte notices the man. "Oh," she says at once, straightening herself. "Hello Mr. Southwark."

"Please; Hikaru," the man says immediately. "Nice to see you."

Bridgitte looks between Dom and Hikaru Southwark several times with a little frown on her face. "What's happening?"

"I was just taking shelter on his doorstep," Dom explains, untangling her hands from her coat. "And he came out to see the celebrations. Quite a happy coincidence."

"Oh," Bridgitte says again. "Well, anyway, Dom – are you going to come and have a drink?"

"I think I'm going home, Bridge," Dom says. "But have fun with  _Will_ , won't you?" She winks at her friend, who blushes a little. Dom can't resist a tease, but she is happy for her friends and squeezes Bridgitte's hand to let her know. Then, she bids Hikaru a farewell and walks off alone down the street.

* * *

"I can't believe you spent New Year's alone," Vic says in dismay when Dom recounts the story to her siblings and Teddy. "You could have come to ours!"

Dom snorts without any real venom and glances pointedly between the two. Teddy has the grace to avert his eyes in embarrassment but Vic maintains her pointed stare. "It's fine," Dom says dismissively as Louis passes her the sugar. She puts in one only (honestly, who has  _three_  sugars?) and continues. "I actually had a really good one. Besides," she adds, thinking of her dark-eyed companion and smiling unwittingly into her drink. "I wasn't alone."

* * *

He is the most old-fashioned person she knows and absolutely refuses to even  _think_  about moving in together or children or even mutual pets before they are married. So Dom, reluctantly, playfully, grudgingly, pulls together a loose rustic wedding. Her mother is only too pleased to help, and wedding plans are made much easier with magic (Hikaru will admit this much, although still insists on manually doing the dishes).

Dom asks Hugo to be the ring-bearer and Lily to scatter the flowers on the aisle. She picks a simple white-silver dress with no veil, although she allows the tiara. She chooses Vic as her maid of honour and Molly as a bridesmaid, and they dress in flattering gowns of their own colour choice (Victoire – rosy pink; Molly – Ravenclaw blue), each with styled braids. Hikaru, with no siblings, insists on Louis as a best man ("You don't have to, 'Karu."

"Why not? He's your brother, and he's about to be mine.")

When Dom asks who he wants as a groomsman, Hikaru thinks about it. Dom has asked for a family-and-close-friends-only affair, but Hikaru's close friends are all over the world, and both his parents passed several years back. "It would be complicated," he tells her. "Your family."

"It doesn't matter," Dom says stubbornly, because after all, the wedding is his idea.

Hikaru hesitates before saying, "Will."

It is true that Hikaru has become very close with Will and Bridgitte, who themselves have considered marriage for a few years, but never gone through with it. Dom hesitates a little too, but then says, "Alright." Hikaru blinks. "We'll tell them. Both of them."

"But-"

"They've got to be invited anyway," she says decisively. "It was always going to happen."

Bridgitte and Will, rather predictably, do not believe her in the slightest at first, but as soon as she proves to them that she is a witch, they think it is the best thing ever to happen.

* * *

Dom has never had anything to regret. Her life has always been the best of everything. Teddy's statement about her –  _"You just fall on your feet everywhere you go, don't you?"_  – is something she keeps with her, in the place she stores Victoire's courage and Louis' passion and Hikaru's smiling eyes; not just because it is a wonderful compliment but because she increasingly understands it over time.

Things have gone right; things have gone wrong, and she has fixed them when they have.

So when the thing that she never thought would go wrong does; when it comes along and she cannot fix it; when the Healer tells her that she is  _so very sorry_ , but Dom will never be able to bear children, the whole world ends.

* * *

Nobody is quite sure how to react. The whole family treats her like a bomb – unpredictable and liable to explode any minute. The way they look at her makes her tired and she hates it, so she goes to the bar. There, at least, Bridgitte smashes a few glasses and Will swears so vehemently, so out of character, that a giggle slips through Dom's lips.

And Bridgitte's eyes fill with tears and turns away; Dom is glad because she herself has not yet been able to cry. Will wraps fierce arms around her and whispers, "It isn't fair," in her ear. "I hate this; it just isn't fair." He has always known the right things to say.

"It's not your fault," everyone keeps saying to her, and Merlin's sake, she  _knows_  that, and it doesn't stop her from feeling devastation and terror and pointless and all those other grey emotions. Hikaru does not tell her that it is not her fault, but she sees it in his face.

"I'm sorry," she says anyway, and he opens his arms, and she goes to him. He is shaking under his coat, even though he very rarely cries in front of her. "I'm sorry," she mumbles again into his coat collar.

"Don't say that to me," Hikaru says. "Not to me." For the first time, her eyes fill with tears because she knows how fiercely he wants to be a father. "There are other ways," he murmurs in her ear, but they both know it is not the same.

* * *

It gets easier, but not lighter. Like a death sentence, Dom carries the knowledge around with her like a secret that is made of stone. She feels it hovering above her, but she learns to ignore it until it is almost like it is not there.

Adoption is a fiendishly tricky business between Muggle and Wizarding families and Dom has never been a good hand at paperwork. But she insists upon looking through some of it; filling out whatever she can, because it is  _her_  body system that won't give children and she will be damned if the same is said for her fingers.

She knows Hikaru is disappointed, but would never, in his gentle manner, reveal it in so many words. She only once suggests letting him go, to find other women, to find a woman who can give him what she herself cannot; but he gives her such an appalled look that she quiets immediately, and for some reason, he starts laughing.

She likes to think it gets easier for him too. The shadows under his eyes disappear, and he laughs more and more. As her cousin Fred likes to say, "Life goes on."

And it is alright, because Dom is always hoping one day, somebody says yes to them. Hikaru always says it will be the same. That they will love a child given to them just as much as one they have created between them. Her husband, like her, does not like to tell lies to other people, so she believes him. She also starts to believe that maybe, even if they keep being told no, having no children is not the end of the world as she has thought.

Until little Dorothy Hope Lupin comes along. And Dom takes one look at her beautiful, clever sister, gazing down at the little perfect crying baby. And Dom knows that, for the first time in her life, she is lying to herself.


	7. Heavy Hangs the Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Victoire is one whose soul is filled with nothing but concern for others. In other news, the stories are starting to draw closer together.
> 
> Disclaimer: They're not mine; it's just a garden I like to play in.

**vii. Heavy Hangs the Head**

_Victoire_

Being the eldest child in the family has its perks. Everyone looks on her especially fondly because she is not just her parents' first kid, but everyone's. The first child after the war, the first new life. Her aunts and uncles have been sneaking her extra helpings of pudding since before any of the others came along.

The downside is that, as much as she tries not to, she always carries a sense of responsibility for all the others. When Dominique travels off to Scotland and disappears from all channels of communication, Victoire seriously considers packing several suitcases and following her sister into whatever trouble she gets into. When Roxanne drops out of her Healer course and takes up an editing job on a whim, Victoire visits her every day for a week to make sure she is alright until Roxanne bans her from the office in exasperation. And when Lily goes missing, Victoire wonders night and day whether or not she is seeing their notices in the newspaper.

"Vic," Teddy says one night, laying his book down beside his lamp. "Lil will come home when she's ready."

She eyes him critically. "Aren't you worried?"

He runs a hand through his hair (plain and sandy) and sighs. "Of course I am. But there's no point in fussing; it won't make her come back to us any sooner."

He is right, of course, but there is a part of Victoire that cannot accept it. Teddy brings her to dinner at Harry and Ginny's house. Both the boys are invited but neither of them show up – "Busy," Harry says with a shrug.

"Always," Ginny adds with a bite in her voice and Vic can't help but laugh. "Boys are all the same," Ginny says to her niece dryly and Harry and Teddy look sheepish.

"The pasta's amazing, by the way, Gin," Teddy says, twirling it around his fork.

Ginny laughs. "I'm sure it's nothing compared to Fleur's cooking."

Teddy grins. "Or Molly's." He nudges Victoire. "Not sure this one inherited the talent."

Vic elbows him hard and smiles beatifically. "Lucky you can cook so well, then, isn't it?"

Teddy winks conspiratorially at his godfather. "This is what it's going to be like when we get married," then freezes. Harry nearly spits out his food.

"What?" he demands, looking between Teddy and Victoire. "Are you two-"

"We're not anything as far as I know," Vic says, exceedingly unperturbed. Teddy often talks about them getting married but they both know it isn't going to happen until she is well past her studies. "Stop freaking them out," she chastises and Teddy looks guilty once again.

They eat in silence for a while. Victoire loves Harry and Ginny's house – the warm comforting living area visible from the kitchen table; the pots of flowers scattered along the kitchen counter; the jars of cereal and racks of spices decorated with little drawings by mini James, Albus and Lily. "Have you heard from her?" she asks before she can stop herself.

Harry and Ginny exchange a glance. "No," Harry says finally, gravely. "But James and Albus have promised that she's alive."

Vic sits up straighter. "They've seen her?"

Harry shrugs. "They know her tricks."

Teddy snorts. "Probably taught her those tricks."

"So why don't they bring her back?" Vic demands immediately.

Ginny purses her lips, clearly unimpressed. "They said that it wouldn't do any good to force her into coming to her senses. She's got to come back on her own – otherwise it doesn't mean anything."

"According to them," Victoire amends and Ginny's raised eyebrow indicates that the two women agree.

Teddy looks between them with wide eyes. "That's uncanny," he says, then is forced to turn with a blush once more back to his pasta.

* * *

"I need a sleeping thing," Teddy says, shuffling from foot to foot.

Victoire stares, halfway through zipping up her skirt. "A sleeping thing," she repeats slowly.

"Yeah…for sleeping." Teddy chews his nail.

Vic makes a face. "What the heck are you talking about?"

"Ok, don't freak out about this, alright?" Teddy sighs. "I'm having these weird nightmares, and I'm thinking that if you can give me our equivalent of a Muggle sleeping pill, they might go away."

Victoire yanks the zipper up firmly and leans over to ruffle his hair. "Why didn't say so before?" Then – "Is that why you're seeing a therapist?"

Teddy pulls on a jumper, not meeting her eye. "I've stopped seeing the therapist. And I would really prefer not to talk about it."

Victoire shrugs, stung. "Fine. Come by the hospital later. I'll see if we can get you anything."

Teddy, sensing her change of mood, reaches out for her. "It's not that I don't want to speak to you  _specifically_ -"

"It's fine," she says airily, shrugging her elbows out of his grasp. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. I grew up with a brother; I know how feelings are for boys. You're all the same, remember?"

And she shrugs her robes on, taking her purse from the bed and turning to leave the apartment. Winning never feels as good as one thinks it will, she muses. But he is part Black and Blacks can be stubborn as all Hell, and icy and flippant too. Sometimes, Teddy needs to be reminded that even though there is Black blood in him, she is half-Weasley. And Weasley stubbornness is not just as persistent Hell, but would outlive the Devil himself.

* * *

Harry Floos straight into St. Mungo's. Victoire shrieks at his sudden appearance and narrowly avoids dropping the files in her arms. "Sorry," Harry says, steadying her.

"How did you do that?" she demands. "You're not supposed- right," she says, catching herself. "Head Auror."

"Perks," Harry says with a grin. "I need you to come with me."

"Why?" Vic asks instantly. "What's wrong and who is it?"

Harry sighs. "It's just Lily." Vic lifts an eyebrow. Since Lily has been home, she has visited no less than seven times, each with no solution other than that it will pass.

"Shaking again, or-"

"Shaking and vomiting," Harry says, rubbing a hand over his face.

Victoire puts her files down and sighs. "Uncle Harry, withdrawal is-"

"I know," he interrupts. "But it would make Ginny feel better to have you there."

And even though Victoire has several patients waiting for her consultation, and her rotation will fall even more behind that it already is, she presses her lips together, locks her office and follows him into the fire.

* * *

Albus is sitting on her desk one morning when she arrives at work. "Hi," she says and he looks up from one of her books. "This was a locked office."

"My dad's Head of the Auror Department," Albus points out.

Vic swings her bag down onto a chair next to the door. "The fire's out and there's no soot on the mat."

"I broke the enchantment on your door." Albus displays the same sheepish look that Vic has seen so many times on Teddy's face. "I'll fix it, I promise."

"You are wasted on Quidditch," Vic says to her cousin with a smile. "How's it going?"

"Yeah, ok," Al says, sliding off the desk to his feet. "Pretty well."

For the first time, Victoire notices Albus leaning against the table, the pallor of his skin, his cheekbones and wrists exposed, his eyes deep in his face. "You don't look good."

Albus looks mutinous, then upset, then reluctant, then resigned. "I don't feel good."

Vic points her wand at the kettle and levitates two mugs from the cupboard. "For Heaven's sake," she says; an expression she has picked up from Teddy. "First your godbrother, then your sister and now you. Is James next in line?" She notices Albus' startled expression and waves at him. "Sit down. Tea?" Albus sits straight and upright in the wooden chair behind Vic's desk and she watches him as she extracts a box of teabags from the upper draw. Albus likes green tea, so she selects two of that type and drops them into the mugs. "It seems I do nothing with my life but take care of Potters," she says as she pours water into the mugs. "What's troubling you?"

Albus accepts a mug with a soft smile and inhales the steam. "I'm just feeling a bit tired."

Victoire seats herself in her revolving chair and surveys him over the rim of her mug. "More than a bit, if my observations are correct."

Albus laughs. "Honestly, I just feel a little drained. My Captain suggested a check-up but I don't really want to see a Healer that I don't know."

Victoire gets up obligingly and turns Albus' chair to face her. She starts with his hands and wrists, then moves to his eyes, his ears, his heart and lungs, watches him walk from door to desk, then checks his blood pressure, heart rate and weight. "Have you been eating?" she asks. "Feel dizzy? Headaches? Nausea?"

Albus shrugs, nods and shakes his head; answers the questions with precision and detail. Victoire can see that he has done this before. "So what's wrong with me?" he asks.

Victoire laughs. "Nothing," she says. "You're not  _sick_. You're just not  _well_."

Al frowns at this. "What do you mean?"

Vic sighs and drags another chair over to sit in front of Albus. "One of the first things you learn in Healer training is that wellbeing is a state. It means that you're healthy in every way; that you're happy and your body is responding to that."

"I'm happy," Albus says defensively.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," Vic says bluntly. "I would guess you're not sleeping enough, not eating enough, not taking enough time for yourself." Albus' face falls slightly. Harry has told her a lot of stories about Ginny's Quidditch-playing stint and Vic can guess what her younger cousin is thinking. "Al," she says gently. "You're a very good Quidditch player. I'd bet you could have minimal training and you'd still be better than loads of others. You don't need to train every minute – you have  _got_  to take some time for yourself. Have a rest, or your body just won't be able to cope."

Albus looks thoughtful. "I think there are other players who probably train just as much as me. Nobody else on my team is having these problems."

Victoire shakes her head. "You can't compare health that way. Maybe it's because you're smaller and lighter. Maybe it's because you're putting more mental effort into it than they are. Maybe they're not training as hard as you. Maybe your body's just weaker." Albus looks incensed but Victoire ploughs on. "Listen to me. You are in no shape to do anything, and if you continue on this way, you won't be able to play much longer."

Albus looks shaken when he leaves, but he still replaces the enchantment on her door. "Thanks, Vic," he says to her, shuffling his feet. "Sorry I just barged in."

Vic hugs him fiercely, feeling every bone where it juts into her through his robes. "I'd be furious if you didn't."

* * *

It is practically a mistake. A filing mistake, a mix-up with emergency contacts. In any case, Victoire is handed a file with the name  _Lily Luna Potter_  with the words, "Isn't this a cousin of yours?"

Victoire nearly does not open it. Filing mistakes are common and she has dozens of the maroon files sitting on her desk that need to be read. But Harry has been saying to them since they were young children – it is better to be safe than sorry.

So Vic thumbs open the file and flicks through the papers that are wedged inside.

Her eyes hit a certain line and the papers fall, nerveless, from her fingers. She is out of the office before they even hit the floor.

* * *

Albus and James are as jumpy as a pair of cats in prickly grass but Victoire crosses her arms and glares at each in turn. "Do you know," she says, "what happens to woman when they lose their children?"

"It wasn't a fallen toy; she didn't  _lose_  it," Albus says and James elbows him.

Victoire considers him. Next to Hugo, Albus has always been the quietest cousin, and fiercely moral besides, and Vic suspects that he is not completely at ease with Lily's decision. But that is a matter to be discussed later; she has a priority today and it is not Albus. "Well, she had it and now she doesn't. Whatever we decide to call it." She slides her hand into her pockets and looks at them, one to the other. "So how is she?"

"Fine," they chorus. At her sharp glance, James hastens to add, "She's not behaving strangely, and she's gaining her weight back. Also her…" He pauses then, as Victoire lifts an eyebrow, continues with an expression that indicates he is in great pain. "Her…she…she's bleeding again."

"Did you just take multiple tries to say the word 'bleeding?" Victoire asks, supressing the laughter in her voice. "It's called having your period," she adds, then lets out peals of laughter as James and Albus squirm.

"Well…yes…that," Albus says. "But nothing out of the ordinary."

Vic narrows her eyes. "You're sure." James and Albus know nothing of the subtleties of females, in her opinion, but they are the furthest thing from unobservant. "Absolutely sure."

But they nod, two earnest young men. "Absolutely sure."

* * *

"They've missed something," Vic says and Teddy laughs. "What?" she asks.

Teddy grins across the table at her. "Why do you think that they've missed something?"

But Victoire is quite serious. "When we were younger, did you ever hear Dom say that she wanted a child?"

Looking rather taken aback, Teddy responds, "No, I don't think so."

"But when she found out she couldn't," Vic continues quietly, "She was devastated."

"But Dom didn't choose not to have children," Teddy points out. "And Lily did."

Victoire sighs. "Lily is a headstrong, stubborn, reckless and frankly, she has a history of making decisions that haven't worked out well for her in the long run." Teddy concedes this point with a tilt of her head. "If Dom feels something, I'm sure Lily does too."

"So why haven't James and Al noticed anything?" Teddy remarks.

"Because," Victoire responds, "Lily is too headstrong, stubborn and reckless to admit it."

Teddy is gazing appraisingly at her. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Distantly, somewhere in her mind, Vic wonders why it is her responsibility, but the thought passes and she shrugs. "I'm not really sure."

* * *

Victoire wanders into The Burrow like it is her home. Dropping her bag next to the hat stand and pushing her jumper sleeves up to her elbows, she peeks into the kitchen. Her grandmother is wiping down a counter top and glances up. "Vic!" she exclaims, dropping the cloth and opening her arms. Victoire crosses the kitchen to hug her.

"You smell nice," she compliments and Molly laughs.

"Thank you," she says. "Now. Let's make some tea so we can have a proper catch-up."

There ends up being sponge-cake as well, because Molly never does not have cake. Vic closes her eyes in delight as she takes a mouthful. "Nobody's baking is better than yours, gran."

Molly's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Of course it isn't. Now tell me about you – have you been well, dear?"

Vic nods and takes a large drink of tea, sighing with contentment. "I've been pretty well. Nothing really out of the ordinary."

Molly eyes her. "And what about the rest of the family?"

"Well," Victoire says, "Dom's doing much better, I think. Louis and Rose had a bit of a tiff the other day but Hugo and I sorted it before they started throwing things." Molly laughs. "Mind you, I'm a bit worried about Lily."

Molly sips her tea. "Oh? Why is that?"

Vic speaks before she thinks it through. "Well, the partying days are over but apparently there was a baby and she had an abortion and she isn't speaking to anybody about it, which worries me." Molly stares at her with wide eyes and Vic realises what she has said. "Oh Merlin; gran, I don't think I was supposed to tell – you can't say anything to anyone-"

"Your secret is safe with me, dear," Molly says, looking resolved but shaken. She pats Victoire's hand. "Just like all the other times you've told me secrets about the cousins. Nothing's changed."

Vic smiles wanly. "But what are we going to do about it?"

Molly shakes her head with a smile. "I have been looking after Weasleys and Potters longer than you have been alive and Lily is half of each. You will never make her do anything she doesn't want to do, and that includes coping with the hard things in life." Molly nods. "Lesson number one."  _Of what_ , Victoire thinks, but says nothing because her grandmother looks quite serous. "Stubbornness is in the genes. Lily will come around eventually." And she evidently catching Victoire's dubious look, because she nods again. "Just trust me."

* * *

Teddy is out for the night with some of his friends from work so Victoire lights a few candles and sits by the window with a plate of dinner. Looking down into the street, Vic can see the lights going on in houses through the little square windows. It is quite peaceful and, if she is honest, pleasant to have an evening on her own. There is some reading that wants to get done – a novel her Aunt Hermione has recommended, and some letters to write to her family in France. And washing as well, she remembers; there is washing to be done-

"Vic!" And suddenly, Dom is right in front of her, so out of breath and unexpected that Victoire shoots to her feet, dinner spilling out of her lap and onto the floor. "Oh," Dom says, looking at the salad lying on the ground between them. "Sorry about that."

"Dom," Vic says, still trying to catch up with her sister's sudden appearance. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry to arrive like this, but you've got to come. Please, right now-"

"Why?" Victoire asks, alarmed. "What's happened?"

Dom has grabbed her sister's hand already. "I was having dinner with Al, and he just passed out," she gasps. "I Levitated him to the sofa but I didn't know what else to do." Vic only nods and grabs her sister's arm so that they might Apparate together.

Albus is awake when they arrive, and sitting up too although Victoire notices that he has failed to stand up with his usual perfect balance. Still, the colour in his cheeks is somewhat returning and his eyes are wide and alert. "Do the words 'take it easy' mean nothing to you, young cousin?" Vic asks, ensuring that she is the very picture of disapproval.

Albus rolls his eyes. "I  _am_  taking it easy," he responds. "I just didn't have a big lunch today – probably just low blood sugar."

Vic sits in the armchair next to the sofa, giving him a warning look when he tries to stand again. "Who do you think you're talking to, Al? I know what low blood sugar looks like – and it's not this." Dom makes a sound of agreement behind her sister.

"I'll get him some water," she says when Victoire turns to her.

"Better make it pumpkin juice," Vic says and Dom nods before disappearing into the kitchen. A moment later, they hear a pot or pan slam against the counter, and some drawers fly open and shut. "I don't think she's very happy with you," Vic says. For a bizarre moment, she feels like a parent, although she is not one yet; with Dom as her younger and less confrontational partner.

"I'm aware," Albus says.

Vic looks hard at him. "Do you think, since so many people are concerned about you, never mind what kind of knowledge or training they've had, you had better take their advice and take it down a notch?"

"You don't understand," Albus says quietly. "Taking it down a notch would mean  _losing_."

Vic rests one elbow on the arm of her chair and leans forward slightly. "I have known you your entire life." Albus lifts his eyes, green and dark, to hers. "Nobody likes to lose. But not once, ever, have you been afraid of it."

But Albus is as stubborn as a true Weasley child. "Not losing at Quidditch," he corrects her, and Victoire can see from the set of his jaw that nothing she says is going to change his mind, or his behaviour. "To myself. Knowing that I haven't done the best I could – what's worse than that?"

Victoire shakes her head. "Albus Severus Potter. What on earth are we going to do with you?"

* * *

"…so it's completely impossible, of course. He absolutely refuses to admit that anything is amiss."

Molly pats her hand consolingly. "Vic, dear, you are now experiencing every trouble with Potters and Weasleys that I have ever encountered."

Victoire looks desperately at her grandmother. "But we have to do something – he'll run himself into the ground at this rate."

"I should have asked you to bring parchment and a quill with you," Molly says, nodding sagely. "There's so much to teach you."

Vic frowns at the strange turn of phrase. "Teach me?" she asks, but Molly is already speaking again.

"Being run into the ground is one of the best ways to learn a lesson," she is telling her granddaughter. "People make their own mistakes, and it isn't always up to you to fix them. Or prevent them."

Vic sits back. "But some people can't build themselves back up from rock bottom."

"Everybody can," Molly says harshly and gently all at the same time. "But some people shouldn't have to. And that's what you need to judge – when to step in. And when to let your siblings and cousins make their own mistakes."

"Well," Vic says. "A lot of them seem to have everything well under control. Dom, for instance – Teddy said it best when he said that she always falls on her feet. And Fred, clearly, has no need of my help; nor do Rose or Hugo."

Molly laughs. "That's your Aunt Hermione's influence."

Victoire privately agrees, although she would never say out loud that one or another of her aunts or uncles are better parents than others. "But Albus, who you'd think would be more on top of his life than anyone else in this family; and Louis, who behaves as if he's constantly stumbling around in the dark; and Lily, of course – Merlin knows what her plans are. Are we just to let them walk blindly into poor decisions?"

Molly shrugs. "Well. That has to be your judgement."

"But," Vic says, genuinely bewildered, "Why me?"

"Because," Molly says, seeming equally confused. "I can't be head of this family forever. And somebody has to do it when I'm gone."

Victoire blinks. "Head of the family? Why?"

Molly smiles but there is a hint of exasperation in it. "Because we're the Weasleys and the Potters, dear. From the outside, it looks as they all cogs are turning smoothly, but we both know this family wouldn't know right from left without proper direction."

"Although," Vic says with the same smile, "We're quite good at blowing steam and looking shiny, aren't we?"

Molly squeezes her granddaughter's hand. "How is the rest of the family, come to mention?"

Taken aback, Vic says, "I haven't really seen too many recently. Hugo still writing. Rose and Louis had a bit of a tiff a while back, but I think that's been sorted. We're all still waiting for Parker to propose to Lucy, of course – I had lunch with her the other day; she said that he doesn't show any inclinations, and she doesn't seem to mind either."

"It sounds like you know rather a lot about how they are," Molly says in a knowing voice.

"But gran," Vic says hesitantly. "That doesn't mean I can or should lead the family. Just because I'm the eldest-"

"It's not because you're the eldest," Molly says. "Your father is my eldest child, and he has no lack of talents, but I don't think he would be at all equipped to lead the family. No," she continues. "It's because you have an instinct for it. For protecting. Guiding."

"But gran-"

"And," Molly interrupts her. "Because, if I'm right about you, then you won't be able to help it." Victoire does not know quite what to say; it is as if Molly has handed her an enormous compliment, and also an insurmountable responsibility. "I won't force you," Molly continues lightly. "But really, would you be happy if you weren't looking after them?"

Victoire concedes this point –  _fussy_ , the cousins call her. And then she thinks of the depths of despair that some of them are seemingly throwing their lives to, and it makes her head ache. "What if they resist it?"

Molly cackles with laughter, throwing her head back. "They will all resist it, always."

Lily, with her folded arms, prickly with defensiveness. Fred, with his quiet, fierce independence; Louis with his wild carelessness; Rose with her vicious one-track mind; Molly with her utter stubbornness; even Albus with his sympathetic exasperation. "It sounds to me like a tricky job."

Vic does not even expect her grandmother to deny it, but it still comes as a shock when Molly agrees. With a nod and another small smile and a pat on the hand and something that Vic recognises as a quote from Hugo; one of his plays, Molly gazes at Victoire. "Heavy hangs the head."


	8. In Sickness and In Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm very fond of the partners, husbands and wives in my Next Gen imaginings. You've already met a fair few; there's another in this chapter who has claim to a great deal of my affection. I do hope you enjoy him.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't claim them as my own, but I do love them like it.

**viii. In Sickness and In Health**

_Lucy_

In the twenty-fourth year of her life, Lucy gets sick.

At first, she doesn't tell anyone except Parker. She is too afraid of her family's faces – Molly's tear-filled eyes, Dom's horrified expression, Louis' stony face, Roxanne's lips pressed together in a white line. So she smiles at them instead, and leaves lunch early and goes home to a glass of wine.

Parker is as endlessly supportive as ever, but Lucy can feel him sliding further and further inside himself as the weeks go on.

The monthly family lunch rolls around. "You've got to go. And you've got to tell them," Parker says firmly, squeezing her hand.

"Because you think they'll be able to help me."

"Because they're your family," Parker counters and Lucy drops her shoulders in defeat. They debate whether Lucy should tell them individually but Lucy is adamant that they hear all together or not at all.

The cousins usually gather in the living room while the adults congregate in the kitchen. Lucy leaves Parker, silent and unsmiling, in the former and traipses into the latter. Her mother and father already know, and sit unsmiling, pale and sick-looking while Lucy tells her aunts and uncles and grandparents. They react quite predictably – bursting into tears and giving her hugs and swearing that they will find a way to defeat the problem. But Lucy only smiles tiredly and is glad that nobody offers their condolences.

She closes the kitchen door behind her carefully when she leaves.

When she returns to the living room, Parker is not the only one who has fallen silent. Albus is sitting beside him, quiet and still, and Louis is sprawled in front of the fire, staring into the flames. Dom is seated cross-legged on the rug, hands folded into her lap, Roxanne is leaning against the flagstones beside the old bookcase.

"You told them," Lucy says to Parker softly, her tone questioning.

"Not a word," he replies.

"Where are Teddy and Vic?" Lucy asks in general.

"Coming," Dom says. "Running late. They were supposed to drop Dorothy off at a friend's house this morning, but she forgot Peppermint, so they had to go back."

Lucy grins at this. Last year, when Dorothy had turned three, Lucy had given her a little doll with flaming red hair and a pleated blue dress. It hadn't been anything particularly special, not even a birthday gift, just an offhand present, but Dorothy had latched onto it. "Peppermint?" Lucy remembers asking Teddy as Dot had run wild with the little doll. Teddy had only shrugged with that look on his face suggesting that it was best to simply go with it.

"We'll wait, then," Parker says, turning the statement into a question, as she had done on seconds ago.

"We'll wait," Lucy affirms.

They catch up on each other's lives. Al is living somewhere in Wales at the moment, training with one of the Quidditch teams there. Delia and James are still getting to know each other again as friends, and Lucy is glad. The divorce was a difficult one, especially with the media swarming around it. Lily looks much better, her skin cleaner and her eyes brighter. Louis is still playing music. Lucy listens with the most rapt attention to his recount. She likes when Louis plays his guitar – the soft, rippling sounds are comforting and they remind her of home and the childhood days.

Dom smiles at her. "What about you, Lu?"

Lucy glances at the door. Vic and Teddy still aren't here. "I'll tell you when the others get here."

"Why?" James speaks up. "Is it important?"

Parker makes a noise and Lucy lays a hand on his arm. "Quite important, yes."

"Did you finally pop the question?" Louis teases, poking Parker's leg, and Lucy spreads her bare fingers against the carpet to show the conspicuous lack of ring.

"You're not pregnant, are you?" Rose asks.

Lucy opens her mouth as Parker draws a quick breath. She is saved from answering by Teddy and Victoire. The two of them breeze in like a summer's day – fresh and young and beautiful. There is much greeting and hugging and kissing on cheeks. Victoire's rose-gold hair flies around her and Teddy's hair changes from its mundane, natural brown to a bright, fluorescent green. Lucy feels a sting of jealousy at their carefree entrance. It slides away when Victoire's arms go around her.

Teddy and Vic are full of news of Dorothy, and her progress, her school, her changing hair colours, how the teachers are suspicious of them because they think Teddy is dying Dorothy's hair secretly.

Finally, Vic says, "Let's go into lunch," and they all stand and Lucy has to draw a deep breath and shout.

"Wait!"

Everybody looks around, startled, and Lucy bites her lip. "What is it, Lucy?" Molly asks, then notices Lucy's face. "Are you ok?"

Lucy draws a deep breath. "I have to tell you guys something."

It is almost worse than telling the parents. The reactions pan from disbelieving to paralysed, and everything in between. Vic is crying and Louis comforts her, staring at the floor blankly. Teddy has tears in his eyes, Lily and Roxanne chatter around her, but everybody else is silent. Hugo crosses his arms. James is the one who cracks the wall of silence, "You're saying," he says slowly, "you're going to die?"

"Don't you dare  _say_  that," Molly shrieks, and then she bursts into tears too.

It is even worse than she has imagined.

* * *

Molly goes home with Lucy, although there is no speaking until they get inside. "So," the elder says as soon as the front door closes. "What are we going to do?"

Lingering in the background, Parker shoots Lucy a look that is simultaneously  _I told you so_  and  _Listen to her_. Lucy ignores both and perches on the edge of an armchair. "What do you mean, Mol?"

Molly hangs her coat up (Lucy's own is still folded over her arm) and crosses her arms against her chest. "About this. About-" She gestures at Lucy, who lifts an eyebrow. "About your problem."

Lucy stares, her mouth falling open a little. "My  _problem_?"

"Oh boy," Parker mutters, although there is a shadow of a grin on his face and Lucy suspects he is pleased that someone is about to get told off that is not him.

"Shut up, Parker," Lucy says firmly. "It's an illness, Molly. And I didn't ask for it, so it's not  _my problem_. And there's nothing to do about it – the Healer said so."

Molly scoffs. "So because the Healer says so, we're just going to accept it?"

Lucy makes a face. "Yeah, we are." Molly turns on her heel and takes her coat down. "Where are you going?"

"Hospital," Molly says shortly. "I'd like to consult the Healer myself."

Lucy throws her hands up in the air. "I know that I wasn't Head Girl like you and I didn't get a thousand N.E. like you, but I'm pretty sure I can hear just as well as you can." Molly looks absolutely mutinous. "And just in case your memory isn't as good as it once was – there is a Healer living in this house." She points at Parker who looks positively alarmed at being included in the conversation.

Lucy is torn between laughing and scowling at her boyfriend, but she supposes that being subject to the twin glares of two Weasley women is a little confronting. "Er…" he says. "Well, I mean…that is to say…Lucy's sort of right."

"How can you  _say_  that?" Molly demands and Lucy rolls her eyes.

"We're going in circles," she says firmly, and lays her coat across the back of the sofa. "We need to stop."

But Molly is pulling on her shoes and Lucy recognizes a warpath when she sees one. "I am not just going to sit here and accept that you're not going to get better." She throws the door open (it is drizzling outside and she pulls up the hood on her coat) and is about to leave but Lucy sees her hesitate on the threshold. Molly turns to her sister in the doorway, an indecipherable expression on her face.

"What is it?" Lucy asks, blinking.

Molly gives her a tight smile. "I love you, Luce."

Lucy's throat grows tight and she nods in return; she has a strange feeling they both think that there are a limited number of times left to say it.

* * *

On Sundays, Lucy likes to lie in her front yard and look up at the passing clouds. Molly had teased her as a child ("You're such a storybook character, Lucy.) but Lucy loves the feeling of sinking deeper and deeper into a hazy swirl of blue and white. This afternoon, she finds a rabbit, a flower and a bunch of grapes before her eyes drift closed.

A shadow appears over her face. "Are you asleep?"

Lucy cracks one eye open. "Yes."

Parker laughs. "Sorry." He sits down next to her; she shifts so that her head is resting on his thigh. "How are you feeling?"

Lucy laughs. "Pretty comfortable right now." Parker runs a hand lightly over her hair. She looks up at him. "How are you feeling?"

Parker laces his fingers through hers. "I've been better," he tells her. "But I've been worse too."

"I saw a bunch of grapes in the sky," she says vaguely, as the light traces patterns on the back of her eyelids.

"Uh huh," Parker says, sounding amused. "So you  _were_  asleep – I figured you were just pretending to make me go away." Lucy laughs. "Oh, look here," Parker says suddenly in quite a different voice. Lucy lifts her head slightly. "Someone's come to see you."

James, hands stuffed so deep in the pockets of his jeans that his shoulders are right up near his ears, is striding across their lawn. As he approaches them, his pace slows, as if he has just noticed them lying there. "Am I interrupting something?" he asks slowly.

"Yes," Parker says suggestively and James flinches, as if Lucy's boyfriend has announced that they are going to strip naked and dance on poles right in front of him.

"No," Lucy says equally firmly, hitting Parker's knee with a light fist. "You're not interrupting. Come and sit down."

James hesitates. "Actually…" He trails off. Clearly whatever he would like to say is hampered by Parker's presence.

Parker, ever alert to the cues, answers with an angelic voice. "Yes?"

Lucy rolls her eyes. "Alright, Parks, inside with you; I'll have a word with Jimmy."

Parker laughs at James' stricken face, eases Lucy's head off his leg and leaps to his feet. "Staying for lunch?" he offers to James and walks off towards the house.

Belatedly, James asks, "What are you having?"

Lucy pats the grass next to her and smiles fondly at him. "He's not going to make fish – if you can trust anyone to take care with your allergies, you can trust a Healer."

James sits, a little stiffly (he's wearing new jeans, Lucy realizes) and folds his arms. "Does Parker even like me?"

Lucy chuckles. "Of course; he just likes winding you up as well." At James' wince, Lucy hastens to add, "Not just you – everybody."

"In our family, being wound up is relatively common," James admits.

Lucy pats him sympathetically on the knee. "So what is it that I can do for you?"

James' hands freeze where they are running through his hair. "To be honest," he says, "I'm not sure. I just…felt like I should come over."

Lucy sighs. She knows that everybody feels as though they need to coddle her – she can see it in the way Teddy looks at her with careful concern, the way Louis bites his lip, the way Fred scuffs his shoes on the gravel of his house as if he is seven years old, the way Lily looks as if she is about to burst into tears.

Come to think of it, Lucy is quite glad that James is here. "Do me a favour, would you?" Lucy asks him suddenly.

"Mmm," he hums.

"Look after Molly."

James lets out a breath and then swallows. "I, uh-"

"I know she'll have all the cousins, and mum and dad," Lucy continues, determined to speak her mind. "But I see the way you and Al are. And Lily. You protect each other. That's what brothers and sisters should do. I don't like to think of Molly on her own."

James gazed down at her, hands in his pockets, with an undecipherable expression. She smiles up at him. "I'm not asking you to invite her to live with you," she says with a slight grin. "I just want to know that she's going to be ok."

James looks like he wants very much to say something, or cry, or be sick but instead, he only nods. "I promise."

* * *

Lucy repeats her request to Albus.

"What makes you think she'll be ok?" Albus asks, not cruelly, but with a sharp edge to his placid voice. "You're a part of her, she's your sister. You're a part of all of us, and you're going to be gone."

His voice breaks on the last word, and it is not her doctor, or Parker's lack of response to her these past few weeks, but the fact that Albus; calm, unruffled, articulate, unshakable Albus, the little boy who she had seen grow from a timid child to a steady, immovable fixture of the family; is thrown by her situation, that makes her eyes sting with tears.

Albus sees her tears and backtracks immediately. "I'm sorry, Lucy, I didn't mean to say that."

Lucy shakes her head. "You're right," she says, as a sob builds up inside her.

"It's not your fault," Albus says quietly, wrapping an arm around her gently. "It's not your fault."

* * *

Lucy knows that her entire family is on board with the plan, and Parker will kill her if he finds out she is doing this; so she slips a cloak on over her pyjamas and Apparates to Fred's house at night.

It is her first time there. Fred's door is forest green in colour and she knocks on the door. There is silence for a long time and Lucy thinks maybe Fred is out or won't come to the door but finally, when she is about to go, the handle turns and Fred appears. "Lucy?" he asks, eyes bleary with sleep.

"I woke you," she says apologetically. "Sorry, but would I be able to come in?"

Fred stares at her for a moment, but then shrugs. "Sure."

The inside of his house is much larger than hers, and more spacey, with a beautiful wooden table and a kitchen island covered with jars of cereal. "Wow," she says, noting the tasteful sofa, the neatly stacked dish set, the wine glasses sparkling in the glass cabinet. "I like your house."

Fred crosses his arms, somewhat defensively. "Thank you."

Lucy shifts nervously. "Ok, it's the middle of the night so I'll get right to it. It's about you funding the research."

Fred frowns. "What about it?"

Lucy presses her lips together and then plunges forward. "Fred, are you absolutely  _sure_  that you want to do this?"

Fred leans back against the kitchen island. "I'm sure."

Lucy takes a deep breath in. "I'm about to ask you something I'm sure will be very insulting to you but –  _why_  are you sure?"

Fred looks at her somewhat sadly but nods. "I have recently become aware," he says, and Lucy has the idea that he is speaking very carefully. "That in our family, money is often associated with a lack of warmth or personality."

Lucy knows that this is right, but says anyway, "Fred, that isn't-"

Fred laughs without any bitterness. "But it is."

She studies him. "You don't seem terribly put out about it."

"Well," he replies. "I know that it isn't true."

Lucy adjusts the edges of her cloak. "And you want the rest of us to know it too."

Fred shakes his head. "I want you to live until you're old and grey with grandchildren and great-grandchildren and two rocking chairs so that you and Parker can bicker comfortably." He smiles at her. "That's what I want, and barely anything else matters."

Lucy reaches out to squeeze Fred's arm. "Bless you."

Fred frowns at her as if he is just thinking of something. "Do you want a drink?" he asks.

Lucy is startled into a giggle. "I don't think the middle of the night is really the time for a champagne or a whiskey."

Fred waves a hand at her, already moving to the kitchen. "It's the best time for it. But," he adds as he catches her astounded expression, "I was thinking more of hot chocolate."

"Oh," Lucy says, fidgeting with her cloak. "Well, I suppose-"

"And I haven't even taken your cloak," Fred scolds himself. "How terrible of me. Do just put it anywhere you like."

Lucy takes a seat at the kitchen island, drapes her cloak over the back of the chair and accepts the mug of steaming chocolate from her cousin. "Thank you." He stands opposite her and toasts her silently. She does not take a drink. "Do you think that they'll really be able to find a cure?"

Fred takes another long drink of hot chocolate but Lucy does not miss how his hand trembles as he lowers his mug. "I do."

Lucy stares at the marble island-top. "It's just that Molly's so hopeful and Parker won't stop talking about  _tests_  and  _experiments_  and  _research_ -"

Fred shifts uncomfortably. "Lucy-"

"And I would so hate to disappoint everyone," Lucy says, quite aware that she is babbling. But Fred's house is warm and comforting, and he has a portrait of the cousins hanging over the fireplace next to his stove and Lucy knows how poorly Weasley men deal with crying. "Mum and dad – if I died – it would be so-"

"Look, can you  _not_  say that word?" Fred nearly shouts, and Lucy flinches and, rather predictably, begins to cry. She is barely aware of it, because she has always cried rather silently, but the tears splash against the fancy countertop and Fred instantly blanches, just like Albus had. "Lu, I'm sorry, please don't get upset-" But of course, it is too late and Lucy is sobbing into her hand. She hears Fred move around the island and beside her, wraps an arm about her shoulders. "Please don't cry." The sentiment is one that she has heard so many times, from her father, her cousins, her male friends; that she laughs aloud through the tears.

"I can't help it, stupid boy," she splutters and wipes at her eyes. Fred produces a handkerchief and offers it to her. "Did you just have that on you?" she asks.

Fred chuckles. "I'm a bottomless well of handkerchiefs, me." He takes a seat next to her. "Roxie used to tell me that I had the bad habit of calculating everything." Lucy wipes her eyes again, and her cheeks. Fred is looking at her quite earnestly. "That's always how it was between us when we were kids. She hoped, and dreamed, and imagined. I calculated."

"That's lovely," Lucy says, pocketing the handkerchief.

"Well, you've got to take it up now. I'll calculate. You hope." He covers her hand. "We'll figure it out together."

They have never been the closest among the cousins, and Lucy is beginning to think this may have been to her detriment. She beams at him. "Whoever you marry is a very lucky girl," she compliments and he scowls at her.

"I was just trying to stop you crying."

Lucy laughs. "Whatever you say, Freddie."

* * *

"Arm," the Healer orders and Lucy, very accustomed to the procedure, holds at her arm. It is her first day of treatment without a companion but she is quite relaxed. "Sharp prick," warns the Healer and Lucy grins.

"You say that every time, Brenda; I know about it."

The dour-faced Healer's lips quirk up at the edges slightly before dropping back into a flat line. But even Brenda cannot hide the amusement in her eyes. "But I still say it."

There is a knock on the door and an auburn-haired head peeps around the door. "Am I disturbing?"

Lucy, delighted, replies, "Just Brenda here telling me how sharp the needle going into my arm is."

Brenda gives Lucy a look that makes her feel like she is five years old having been caught stealing a cookie. "Better I say it than you be surprised." And she sweeps away.

Roxie takes the chair next to Lucy's and arranges her bag on her lap. "She seems like an absolute delight."

"Oh," Lucy says, "She is. A beaming ray of sunshine." On a more serious note, she adds, "I'm very grateful to her, though." Roxie glances curiously from Lucy's arm to the bag it is connected to. "Don't look at that," Lucy says lightly. "Tell me your news. What have you been up to?"

Roxie leans in a little. "Lu, can I tell you a secret?"

Lucy is rather taken aback. "A secret?"

"Of course, you should tell Parker, and Molly if they should ask. But I don't want too many of the cousins to find out yet," Roxie says, almost a little sheepishly.

Lucy hesitates but replies, "You can tell me." Roxie looks down into her lap and then, slowly, slowly, reveals her hand. Lucy frowns dimly for a moment but then it dawns upon her. "Marriage," she says flatly.

Roxie's mouth drops a little at her tone. "Uh – yes."

Lucy blinks a few times. "To who?"

Roxie hides her hand. "A muggle."

Lucy fails to see why this is a secret. "Why haven't we ever met him?" Roxie looks into the other direction and Lucy sees the disappointment on her face. "Oh, Roxie, I'm sorry – my congratulations. And I'm very, very happy for you."

Roxie turns back towards her. "Are you?"

Lucy reaches out with her un-needled arm and grasps Roxie's hand. "Delighted beyond belief," she says truthfully. "But I also don't understand. Why haven't we heard of this man before now and why can't we tell anybody?" She gazes at Roxie. "It can't be because he's a muggle – Dom married a muggle too, and nobody blinked twice. And do you know how thrilled Grandpa Arthur is going to be; with two muggles in the family?"

Roxie shakes her head. "He's…religious."

Lucy makes a face. "So?"

"His family are very…traditional."

Lucy does not know much about religion and as a result, has to muddle her way through the next question. "Does that mean you have to convert to – what religion is it, by the way? One of those obscure ones, is it?"

Roxie laughs. "Catholicism. And no; I've told him that I won't be forced into believing something I don't want to; and he won't force me." Lucy nods, having expected no less of her cousin. Lots of people mistake Roxie's natural softness for weakness and all have been proven soundly incorrect. "But I have promised to give it a fair chance – and save believing in it, to learn about it. And accept it."

"Well, that sounds very sensible," Lucy says honestly. "Again, let me say I'm very happy for you." And thinking of Fred's words –  _Roxie hoped and dreamed and imagined_  – feels a surge of jealousy at how easily Roxie can open her mind to new beliefs and ideas. "Quite envious of you as well."

"Of me?" Roxie asks, looking bemused.

Lucy smiles. "To have something to believe in is no shabby claim," she tells her younger cousin. "When you're in a circumstance like mine, that becomes clearer than ever."

Roxie looks rather startled at that. "But you do have something to believe in. I can tell."

Lucy looks up. "What do you mean? I've never believed in anything particularly."

Roxie gives her a knowing look. "Well, that isn't true. I've known Matthew-" (His name is Matthew, Lucy notes), "-long enough to know the look of someone who believes very in something and have it help them in times of trouble."

Lucy twists her lips doubtfully. "Are you sure? I can't think of anything specifically."

Roxie shrugs. "What brings you peace when you're sad? Or calm when you're angry? Is there something that helps you, to think about in times of upset?"

Lucy blinks. "No," she says, and even though she genuinely believes herself, somehow the word rings false.

* * *

Everybody asks her how she feels, and she always responds the same way, "Better than before."

But this cannot be true every day, and it is certainly not true today. "I hate this," she admits to Parker as they lie in bed that night. They are staying with Percy and Audrey for the week at Audrey's request. Parker had objected at first ("It's always better to have familiar things around you, just in case.) but Lucy had waved away his professional concerns with the authority of a daughter. "It was awful today."

Parker cradles her head in his arm. "I'm sorry, darling."

Lucy rolls her eyes. "Well, it isn't  _your_  fault."

He presses a kiss to her head. "I'm sorry anyway."

Lucy feels a sting in her eyes and shakes her head. "No, don't be nice to me; it'll start me off again. Let's talk about something else." She shifts; her head aches and her muscles are sore but she tries to put it out of her mind.

Parker does not seem willing to drop the subject. "Is there something nice that  _you_  like to think of on the bad days?"

Lucy's mind is thrown back to Roxie's conversation.  _What brings you peace when you're sad_? "Nothing much in particular, really."

Parker's fingers trace circles on her upper arm. "Isn't there anything?"

"Well," Lucy says slowly. "There is this one day when we were kids – Molly and I – and Molly turned a whole shrub into a cloud of butterflies." She giggles at the memory; it makes her stomach hurt a little. "Dad's face; he looked like he had just seen her vanish into a puff of smoke." She sighs. "I thought about that this morning."

"What else?" Parker prompts blurrily. Lucy somewhat suspects he is falling asleep.

"Fred," Lucy says, thinking of his comforting her, despite his complete embarrassment by crying. "And Roxie, with all her love, and Al with his Quidditch mania, and James being James. Louis, and his guitar and Dom, of course. Everything about her makes me smile, except that terrible business-"

"Yes," Parker agrees.

"Hugo with his books and Victoire and Teddy and Dot, who makes me happier than anyone else-"

"Anyone else?" Parker interrupts again.

Lucy leans her head against him. "I will not indulge you by answering that." Parker chuckles and she feels the vibration in his chest. "They're my family," she says. "And it makes me happy to think of them."

"You love them," Parker murmurs.

Lucy nods slowly. "They're all I've ever known." Her revelation is interrupted by a creaking stair. "Who on earth is up at this hour?"

She sits up and Parker shifts slightly, saying, "No, don't get up; let me." But Lucy ignores him and swings her legs over the side of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to leak away from her. "What if it's your father?" he asks suddenly and Lucy grins, knowing that Parker, despite their having been together since school, is rather embarrassed by the fact that they are unmarried and sharing a bed under her parents' roof.

Percy honestly could not care less and Lucy knows so, but she says, "Just pretend to be asleep."

She makes sure that he is settled and his eyes are closed before pulling the door open. Molly is just going past. "What's wrong?" she asks, alarmed, because Molly looks quite shaken.

At once, Molly's expression clears. "Nothing."

And Lucy is quite sure her sister is lying, but all she wants to do is lie back down. So she smiles at her sister warmly, as warmly as she can (her sister, who is one of her greatest strengths) and closes the door.

* * *

On the day that she is pronounced  _well_  rather than  _recovering_ , Lucy pens Fred a note. She hands it to him in person and watches him unfold it with a confused expression on his face.

She has written it in her best handwriting (which is the same as her worst handwriting; and it is all beautiful) and come to his door in the early morning as the sun is rising. And he opens it, and reads it, and smiles.

_Fred:_

_These past years have taught me a great many things, but the greatest thing is one that I have learnt from you. You once told me that it was my job to hope; and in trying to do so every day for the last four years has taught me in what areas I am strong. And that my greatest strength is the family, and the people around me._

_You have helped me more than you could ever know, and I'm grateful to you for being such a partner._

_My best,_

_Your most thankful and loving cousin._


	9. To Have Loved and Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Rimsky-Korsakov, whose Scheherezade is a masterpiece for the ages. Additionally, it contains within a third movement (III) which was the inspiration for this chapter. Please enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but several minor characters, and Louis' love of music.

**ix. To Have Loved and Lost**

_Louis_

When he is twelve years old, he is taken, along with Dom and Victoire, by his Aunt Hermione to a concert in London. He is seated between Rose and Vic, the former fidgeting in a new dress, the latter whispering across him for her to stop. Uncle Ron is not there to indulge their restlessness, and Aunt Hermione quells them with several muttered admonitions. Dom kicks her feet and leafs through the pamphlet while Hugo gazes around them in silence, and Louis is almost sorry that he had told his parents he wanted to come.

But after the orchestra has finished tuning (which Louis thinks a horrendous cacophony), the conductor lifts her baton in the air.

Years later, Louis looks back on that moment; the silence before the baton strikes, and brings out the first glorious chord; that momentous breath before the storm hits.

And then, the orchestra plays out the first rich, magnificent chords of Rimsky-Korsakov's  _Scheherezade_. And just so, Louis is plunged into the world of music, not with a clean, light appetiser flavoured with lemon or vanilla, but with dessert and the strong and overwhelming darkness of chocolate – wildly, richly and utterly fearlessly.

Music becomes his first love, and except for his family, it is the only one that stays with him for the entirety of his life.

* * *

He is not the sort of child who demands a great number of material goods. So when he expresses a desire to attain musical instruments, his parents are only too happy to oblige. He does, in fact, inherit a grand piano from his maternal grandfather; it is kept in his grandmother's house and he is welcome any time he likes.

But he wants something of his own (a concept that he picked up very early in life) and saves up until he can buy a guitar with his own money. The first one he ever owns is second hand, with rusted strings that he eventually replaces. It is somewhat scratched and beaten up but even though the strings change many times over the years, he owns this guitar until the day he dies.

Playing comes quite easily to him, and he is mostly self-taught, although he does get lessons here and there. There are several musicians in the Wizarding world from whom he gets advice, but Rimsky-Korsakov was a muggle, and it is Louis' genuine suspicion that in the muggle world is where he will find the teachers that he so craves.

In the meantime, he works on his fingering, and his  _grand-mere_  teaches him chords and melodies on the piano. She asks him if he likes classical music (her favourite) or perhaps jazz (which she does not mind) or popular music (which she views with much distaste). Louis shrugs – he likes music. He does not mind how simple or complex, how old or new. He never loses his taste for the  _Scheherezade_.

Eventually, Louis manages to pin down a muggle teacher. He is given an address in south London and he asks Dom to Side-Along him, since he is still a Hogwarts student, bound by the rules of the Ministry; they arrive, looking up at a rather drab, grey building. "Louis, are you sure about this?" Dom asks, voice filled with doubt.

Louis is not, but he waves at her anyway. "Go on, Dom. I'll take the tube to the pub later and we can go home together."

Despite his show of confidence, he hesitates before pressing the doorbell. "Yes?" a voice come through, crackly, which does not boost his spirits.

"I'm Louis Weasley," he calls, possibly louder than necessary. "I called about a lesson."

"Come on up," the voice says and there is a buzzing which Louis takes to mean he should push on the door. The stairs do not perform better than the doorstep, slightly creaky with peeling grey paint. The door on the fourth landing is open and Louis knocks before pushing it open. Naturally, predictably, it creaks.

"Hello?" he calls and his voice echoes more than he would have thought.

"Hello," a pleasant voice replies and he whirls around in alarm. A low, melodious laugh follows this and Louis sees that it belongs to a young woman, about Victoire's age, with dark hair and a pleasant face. "My apologies," she says. "I didn't mean to laugh at you, or startle you."

"It's okay," he mumbles, noting her Irish accent. "Are you-"

"I'm Ivy Washington," she says.

He blinks several times while he absorbs this information. "Y-You're Ivy Washington? The music teacher?"

She lifts an eyebrow. "Should I be insulted at your surprise?" He blinks again. "Is it my age or my gender?" But she smiles to show that she is not truly insulted, and Louis is glad.

"No, sorry," he says, rather flustered. It is a new feeling for him. "I – your age," he admits and Ivy Washington nods. "My sister, Dominique – she always hates to be underestimated for her age." He pauses, then blurts out – "And so do I. So really, I should know better."

But Ivy Washington does not seem perturbed by his strange verbal outbursts. "It's not anything new for me," she assures him. "Come into the music room." Louis follows her through a door into a much bigger and better-lit space. He is distracted as he goes through, as his guitar case brushes against the door frame but as he looks up, he gasps with delight.

The room is filled with instruments – grand piano, guitars, a violin laying atop a cabinet, sheet music scattered over the piano lid and the floor and every available surface. "Oh," she says, stopping and looking around. "It's a little messy; I've been writing a bit."

"You  _write_ music," Louis says, thoroughly impressed. "And do you teach much, Ms. Washington?"

"It'll be Ivy from now on," she tells him. "And yes, a few. I only take students I'll be able to improve."

Louis lifts a curious eyebrow. "How do you tell that?"

Ivy thinks on this for a moment, then says frankly, "Just a feeling, really." They pause, Louis takes in the large square window on the far wall. Then Ivy says, "Shall we begin then?"

* * *

Learning music from Ivy Washington is curious, delightful and immersive for every sense. She makes him practice, drills and arpeggios and scales, scales, scales. But even though these nearly drive him, and his family, up the wall from the constant repetition, Louis loves every note. The lessons themselves are endlessly enjoyable – some days, Ivy uses a large blackboard to scribble melodies and notes, to teach him theory. On others, she helps him experiment with different instruments, laughing at his attempts on the flute and the viola, although he is quite talented at the saxophone.

She plies him with books – "Read this passage," she tells him and he recites from a marked page of Beethoven's biography while she samples his greatest works. She blends seamlessly from  _Fur Elise_  into the  _Moonlight Sonata_  as a soundtrack to the whole scene, making it strangely sad and poignant, even though Louis thinks on its own, there may be no dryer passage of literature.

On one day, they drink sherry and eat cake and talk at end about the Impressionist composers. On another, she gives him a stack of sheet music and asks him to determine which piece he likes the best by playing the music inside his own head.

Louis is exceedingly curious as well about her other students, but Ivy never says a word about them. Once, he sees a young woman, prettier even than his sisters, with dark skin and cat-like eyes, emerging from the drab door; another time, as he leaves, an elderly gentleman enters, dressed in a three-piece suit with a hat that he lifts at Louis in greeting, and a cane with a golden dragon top. "Who are they?" Louis asks Ivy once as he removes his coat but she smiles at him.

"Just various misfits that I've taken in," she replies to him, and he lets the issue lie.

* * *

"He's utterly besotted with her," Dom says, in a hushed voice as if she is delivering a delicious secret.

Vic, Teddy, Will, Bridgitte and Hikaru are all gathered in front of Shell Cottage, seated on a picnic blanket with plates of food spread between them. As Dom deliver this line, they all glance towards him with mixed levels of curiosity. "She's fabulous," he says with a shrug.

"As what?" Bridgitte asks with a sparkle in her eye.

Louis laughs and spoons himself some more fruit salad but refuses to be drawn in. "A music teacher."

"How long have you been going to her?"

"A few years, I think, now," Louis says, mentally calculating backwards. "And it's still brilliant."

"What's so good about it?" Hikaru asks curiously as Dom leans into his side.

Louis considers this. "Well, she knows a lot about music-"

"As any music teacher should," Teddy interjects with a laugh.

"Well, yes," Louis says. "And she…she loves it. It's a friend to her. A passion. It speaks to her and keeps her company and fills her head every second." He is aware that everyone is watching him, so he says simply, "It's something I'd like to have."

They all look rather uncomprehending, but Hikaru nods at him, and something in his eyes makes Louis thinks maybe he understands. Victoire speaks next. "Imagine if you do get together, Louis," she chirps and Dom laughs.

"Half the family would be married to muggles."

Louis laughs as well but for himself, he thinks that even if he did have the inclination, Ivy would probably not be the marrying sort.

* * *

Lucy gets sick and Louis copes with it as he has with everything in life; by retreating into himself. Dom and Victoire and Bill and Fleur, well-accustomed to the quiet, focussed, intense version of him that emerges with trauma or stress, do not make any comments; only ensure that he is well-fed and has company when he wants it.

He has made several attempts at composing music before – each has been pleasant to the ear but empty, hollow, dispassionate. But unlike Fred, who they all know is terrified of thinking or feeling or knowing about death, Louis allows his terror and grief to flood his brain; it breaks a dam that he had not known was there. The notes spill from his quill onto the parchment in crashing waves and he scribbles and experiments and plays and scribbles some more, slashing and crossing and colouring. He brings them to Ivy, who pulls them apart and spreads them across her piano, noting in silence the watermarks where his tears have sometimes fallen.

When he arrives for his session one evening as the Sun is setting, Ivy is seated at the piano, playing a sorrowful melody with a harmony so filled with longing that Louis feels his heart pull and tighten in his chest. "What's that?" he says, putting down his bag. "Something new?"

Ivy turns slightly and gives him a curious look, the sparkle in his dark eyes accentuated by the wash of orange and red from the window. "You don't recognise your own composition?"

Louis, dumbfounded, replays the piece in his head. It is true that the tune is very familiar, settling on his skin like a melancholy friend; but the harmonies and the rhythms and the lingering ache left in his chest is all new to him. "You finished it."

Ivy lowers her gaze. "You don't mind, do you?"

" _Mind_?" Louis repeats. "It's much better than anything I could have done."

She huffs with some exasperation. "Louis, you  _did_ write this. I just filled in some chords – the words and the stories in the music are all yours."

Louis' mouth falls open. "But I'm not a composer."

She laughs at him and stretches across the piano stool so that her hair lies over the edge like a bizarre waterfall. He watches her, entranced by her sudden, graceful movement. Her form is long, despite her short stature, and the darkening light streams over her like ribbons. "You're a musician," she tells him. "And a human. And therefore, you can write music. And tell stories."

Louis wonders, dimly as he gazes at her, what her story is.

* * *

True to his word, a month after Lucy's treatment is underway, Fred deposits some money in Louis' Gringotts account. Louis drops a line to Fred letting him know that the money will be returned in due course, says goodbye to his parents, promises Dom and Vic that he will write and call home often, and Apparates to the Ministry.

He takes a Portkey from a frosty English evening to Sydney, Australia, emerging into sunlight so bright that he can hardly see. Everybody wears shorts and t-shirts and the women float about in sundresses and flip-flops; the sea sparkles like diamonds on a blue tablecloth and Louis loves it so much that he thinks he wants to stay forever.

He strolls along the beaches and through the suburbs, peeking into lovely little cafes and inhaling the scent of the jacarandas; in shady little streets that look like England's disorganised and slightly rambunctious younger cousin. "It's lovely here," he tells Dom on the phone. "Very sunny."

"And the women are all tall and tanned? I suppose is another reason you like it?" Dom laughs, then grins down the phone at Hikaru's appalled admonition. "Oh, relax, 'Karu, I'm just kidding with him."

"Dom, I sort of have the feeling you'd fit in really well here," Louis says in return. "As to the women – I've not really noticed."

"And you're not really into the tall, tanned type, are you?" Dom giggles. Hikaru remains conspicuously silent this time and Louis knows that they both think he is carrying a torch for Ivy.

Ignoring this, he says, "I'm going to a concert tonight, and doing some writing tomorrow and I'll be back in Europe within the week."

"And where to next?" Dom asks.

"I thought I'd head to Ireland for a bit – Ivy grew up in Dublin, so I thought I'd poke around there. Learn a bit about their music."

"Meet her parents," Dom jibes. "Cosy up to her family-"

"Ok," Louis says. "I'm going now. Have a nice life while I'm gone." Dom is laughing as he hangs up the phone.

* * *

Dublin enchants him as equally as Sydney with its bridges and taverns and street performers. "Mr. Weasley!" exclaims the young woman one afternoon behind the motel front desk as he enters the lobby. "You're back earlier than I thought you'd be!"

Louis stops, adjusting his bag strap. "Am I?"

The woman (he thinks her name might be Jenny or Jackie) wrings her hands. "Your cousin – that is, he said he was your cousin – is waiting for you in the tea room. I told him you wouldn't be back until dinner."

Louis frowns. "My cousin? What cousin?"

She nods towards the room. "Hugo Weasley, he said. And he said that he would wait."

Louis makes a face in the direction of the door. "Hugo's here? Did he say why?" When she continues to look nervous, Louis shakes his head. "I'll ask him. Thank you very much."

Hugo is dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a forest-green jumper with sleeves pushed up to the elbows and when he stands, he is taller than Louis remembers. "Hi," he says, a little awkwardly.

Louis gives his youngest cousin a quick hug, then pushes him back into a chair, taking one himself. "I'm very happy to see you, you know, but what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to ask for your advice about something."

Hugo speaks, explains his new manuscript, and Louis listens. When he is finished, Louis frowning. "Why?"

Hugo looks startled. "I'm a writer. I want to write."

"No," Louis says, seeing that Hugo has misunderstood. "Why are you asking me?"

Hugo seems to be even more surprised at this. "Well…it's a book about you. About you all – us all," he corrects himself.

Louis considers his cousin. "But it's not actually about us, is it? You said the characters are called different things, and they aren't exactly-"

"It's a book about a family of siblings and cousins, and characters that, upon my own reflection, seem quite similar to people that I know very well," Hugo interrupts with severity. "And it's quite true that nobody would guess it's us, but I don't like to do it without everybody's permission."

"Is that what you're doing?" Louis asks curiously. "Asking for my permission?"

Hugo admits, "No." He twists his hands. "I'm asking for your advice as to whether I should, and how I should put it to everyone else."

Louis twists his lips in a wry smile. "Afraid of your sister?"

"And yours," Hugo says.

"Oh, Dom won't care," Louis says, knowing this to be true. "She'll be thrilled that you've written something you like. But Vic," he says. "Well, you know she's warier by nature." He considers his cousin, so quiet and considerate. "Give it to me," he says suddenly, and Hugo looks up.

"Give what to you?" he asks uncertainly and Louis smiles.

"What you've written. The manuscript; the draft. Give it to me."

Hugo narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

Louis laughs. "You're going to have to let us read it eventually anyway. I want to know what I'm agreeing to before I agree." Hugo, still with a reluctant spark in his eye, reaches into the bag at his feet and produces a dark blue folder, and hands it to Louis. "You brought it with you?" Louis asks, opening it to find a thick stack of sheets covered with neat handwritten lines.

"I thought you might ask," Hugo says. "Although I had hoped you wouldn't, because it's not quite finished. Or edited."

But Louis does not hear this, because he is already reading.

* * *

"So?" Dom asks over the phone. "Is it good?"

Louis closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Your character's amazing."

"Has me made me funny?" Dom wants to know.

"No," Louis says. "But he hasn't diminished your decency. Which is more than I can say for some of the others."

Dom lets out a gasp. "Oh, has he made some of the cousins wicked and spiteful?" she asks with a sparkle. "I can't wait to read it."

"You mustn't tell anybody," Louis hisses. "I don't think he wants them to know yet."

"Oh, you know I won't," Dom says. "I'm just so pleased."

Louis smiles. "That's what I told him you'd say."

There is a long silence and Louis nearly forgets that they are talking on the phone when Dom speaks again. "What are you thinking about?"

Perhaps it is his own imagination, or his prolonged exposure to an artform of another kind, but Louis thinks that he can understand the composition of Hugo's words – how they fit together like a puzzle, flowing like a smooth river over low pebbles, and how they tell just enough of the story to reveal a hint of a scent, a taste on the tip of the tongue, a flash of colour at the corner of one's vision. To keep one wanting more; dangling the scenes tantalisingly before the reader.

It is its own kind of music and story-telling, which Louis knows enough about to know that Hugo is good.

"Nothing," Louis says, and rolls over onto his front.

* * *

"Aren't you writing anymore?" Ivy asks, as they are listening to the radio one evening.

Distracted by the lyrics of the song –  _This is the deep and dyin' breath of this love we've been workin' on_ – Louis does not catch the question the first time. "Who is this?" he asks, making a note on his page. The guitar underneath is well-played and meticulous and Louis is almost hypnotised by it.

"John Mayer," Ivy says, and takes a drink of her whiskey. "I said, aren't you writing anymore?"

"What?" Louis asks. "Oh, I am, a bit."

"Not for a few weeks," Ivy observes. "Which is a shame, because I thought you were really getting somewhere with some of them." She tilts her head and frowns at him. "Has something happened?"

Louis sighs and tilts his head back in his chair, letting John Mayer's voice wash over him. "Nothing much…my cousin, Hugo. He's writing a book."

"An author," Ivy says, and Louis can hear a note of approval in her voice. "How talented he must be."

"Well, that's just it," Louis says, sitting up so quickly that Ivy starts slightly, the whiskey slopping against the sides of the glass. "He  _is_ talented. The words that he writes; it seems like it was so easy for him. It's as if they came alive and jumped out of his quill onto the parchment without any effort at all." If Ivy finds the use of the words  _quill_  and  _parchment_  odd, she keeps it to herself. "And I can't seem to write two notes without crossing them out and starting again."

"Do you believe in God?" Ivy asks, leaning forward to turn the radio off.

"I don't know," Louis says. "But my cousin Roxanne does."

"Well," Ivy says. "It might surprise you to know that I do."

"Do you?" Louis asks. She is correct; it surprises him greatly. "I didn't know that."

"Music," she tells him, sipping from her glass, "is, I often think, a gift to us. So are words, like your cousin has. The difficulty that comes to each person must also be thought of as a gift. And even though you might not believe in God, it would do you good to think the same as well."

"How can I think of it as a gift?" Louis grouses. "It frustrates me to no end."

Ivy shrugs; her sleeve slips a little lower on her shoulder and Louis' eyes are drawn to it immediately. "The struggle may be hard, but if the end is beautiful, why should it be called anything but a gift?"

Louis' eyes travel to her slim fingers, clasping the glass, to her wrists and bare forearms. Her lips around the edge of the glass, tipped up at the sides with a slight smile; her dark eyes with their mischief and passion. He wishes fervently that she had not turned the radio off; John Mayer's guitar would have done well to fill the silence, although something softer and more Romantic, like Chopin or Elgar, might have done the job better. "Why are you staring at me?" she asks him, which jolts him out of his reverie. She looks slightly puzzled, and not at all enchanted like his is; and Louis get the feeling that they are living in two completely different worlds. Hers is sharp and crisp and real, so focussed that she can taste melodies like wine, and see through people and hear through music as if it is glass; while his is blurry and magical, with fairytale colours and roses and princesses with golden hair (even though their hair is always dark like obsidian waterfalls in his dreams) and about as real as a storybook.

His is one of love; and hers one of precision. Some inexplicable melancholy crashes down on him, and wakes him up so fast that it nearly hurts. Louis concludes that he is slightly drunk.

"I think I should go home," he says. "I feel a little groggy."

"You only had a sip of whiskey," Ivy laughs, but makes no protest. There is some measure of concern in her face. "Are you alright to get home, if you're feeling groggy?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure I'll be fine," he says to her, but when he is downstairs, he rings Dom to help him.

"What is wrong with you?" Dom asks, half-amused and half-alarmed, as she arrives and he leans heavily on her. "Has something happened?"

Louis shakes his head and it spins alarmingly. "Nothing."

* * *

When he had first announced to the family his great dream of playing and writing music, Rose had rather disapproved of it; they had quarrelled quite badly. But now, as Louis opens his door, Rose stands on the door with a warm smile and a box of freshly-baked cookies. "Can I come in?"

"Oh, of course," Louis says, welcoming her in, taking her coat and ushering her into a chair.

"I heard your latest piece on the radio this morning," Rose says. "A string quartet, I think? Scorp pulled me out of the bath to hear it."

"Well, I'm sorry about that," Louis laughs. "Did you like it?"

Rose nods fiercely. "Very much. It was lovely. I just had lunch with Hugo and he liked it too – he thought it was very deep. And sad, somehow."

"That's nice of him," Louis says, pouring tea. "And of you."

Rose looks carefully at him and offers him a cookie. "You  _are_  pleased, aren't you? I hear you're quite a buzz in the music world."

"Yes," Louis says. "I'm pleased."

Rose purses her lips and Louis can tell that Rose is not impressed by his answer. "But are you happy?" Louis shrugs and Rose tries again. "I heard from Dom that you've stopped going to see that teacher of yours."

"I felt I didn't really need her anymore," Louis says, looking down into his cup of tea.

And Rose, clearly abandoning all her feeble attempts at subtlety, says, "Were you in love with her?"

Louis, who has grown up with Rose, is not surprised by her bluntness. "Maybe," he tells her and her face softens with something akin to sympathy. "It was possibly only a physical attraction. Possibly more." Louis pauses. "Probably more," he admits.

"And why didn't you ever tell her?" Rose wants to know, voice coloured with either frustration or anger.

Louis shakes his head. "Because she didn't feel the same."

"But you don't  _know_  that," Rose says, her voice rising impatiently.

"Oh, Rose," Louis says with equal bite. "You don't understand  _anything_." Rose huffs at him and says nothing, and Louis regrets it immediately. They are black and white, he and Rose, and have been arguing since childhood, but truthfully, he hates it when they disagree. Parting company with anyone in anger discomfits him. "I didn't mean that," he relents. "I just…I know her. Ivy's the kind of person who would make it clear, by some signal or other. But she's always treated me just as she would treat you, or anyone else. And that's the truth."

Rose nods at this and her ire melts away immediately. "But running away doesn't seem like something that you would do."

"I didn't run away from her," Louis says. "She's a good woman but I'm sure there'll be others."

"How unromantic," Rose remarks but Louis rolls his eyes and ignores her comment.

"It's just that…music was my dream. And still is my dream." Louis sighs. "But it's not my only dream."

Rose says the words he cannot bring himself to. "You'd like to fall in love. Is that what you mean? And have a family." He nods stiffly, a little uncomfortably. "And you're what – worried that you've left it too late?"

"No," Louis says, shaking his head. "It's not that." Rose lifts an eyebrow and waits; Louis knows that he will never get away with not continuing now. "What if-" He sighs miserably. "What if it never happens at all?"

And, strangest of strange things, Rose laughs. "Louis," she says through her giggles. "That's the silliest thing I've ever heard you say."

"Alright," Louis says, stung.

"Sorry," Rose chuckles. "I didn't mean – look, I never planned for Scorpius to happen. He just came along one day and I got swept up and pulled along, and it's the best thing." She looks rather earnestly at him; he takes another cookie. "There are two types of good things that happen in life. The ones you plan, and the ones you don't. And the ones that you don't plan usually happen as you're working towards the ones that you do. Falling in love is like that, and so are a million other things. It's never something you can control." She takes a cookie herself. "So don't go thinking like that. It's no use."

_The struggle may be hard, but if the end is beautiful, why should it be called anything but a gift?_

They are both right. If Lucy's harrowing experience, with its wondrously happy ending, has taught him anything, it is that living in each moment is terribly and terrifically important.

Rose never tells another soul about Ivy Washington, and when Dom and Vic and Teddy and Hikaru and Will and Bridgitte ask him about her, he only smiles and says that there was nothing. "It's a shame you've stopped seeing her," Hikaru remarks to him, and his serious gaze suggests to Louis that he suspects more than he says aloud. "After all, the one who helps you to realise your dream never truly leaves you."

And Ivy Washington has helped him realise not only one, but many dreams of his. To his dying day, she is his biggest mystery and his only enduring regret.

He writes music for the rest of his life and she is in nearly every piece he produces – lingering and enigmatic, her almond eyes sparkling and her dark hair swinging past her shoulder; her laugh, her feverish gaze at sprawling sheet music, her nimble fingers against ivory piano keys, that sleeves slipping off her dainty shoulder, the way her skirts swirl about her knees. She is there like for a moment, a light note at the top of the register, a pause in a cadence; flitting in and out of the notes and melodies; the woman.

Love does come to him eventually, but he never sees Ivy again.


	10. Where There's Smoke (There's Fire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is my first time writing Draco and Astoria, but I thought they deserved an appearance, since Scorpius is going to become a Weasley at some point in the future. I've taken slight liberties and disregarded what happens to Astoria in Cursed Child; but I've kept the couple's love and affection towards each other, and Draco's somewhat kinder disposition. Please enjoy, and comment your opinions.
> 
> Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling grew the garden and now, I stroll about within and admire the flowers.

_Rose_

* * *

_Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom_

~Aristotle

* * *

When she turns seventeen and comes of age, Albus, Dom and Hugo throw her a party and headline it with a banner reading  _Golden Child_. They crown her with a paper chain and Conjure a plastic orb and spectre while she laughs; until James tips a glass of champagne over her head.

" _James_ ," she says furiously, combing her fingers through her sopping wet hair, and then promptly bursting into laughter at everybody's amused faces.

"It's a family tradition," James tells her loftily.

Her parents present her with a watch. ("Even though only wizards are supposed to get them," Ron jibes and Hermione rolls her eyes.

"Yes; because only males need to tell the time."

"Don't you care about tradition, Hermione?"

"Well, Ronald, maybe I wouldn't have as much of a leg to stand on if you were on time more often."

"Can it, you two," Harry interjects with a grin. "Although I do miss this.")

Scorpius gives her a necklace that blazes as brightly as her hair, which she fastens immediately around her neck. ("I still don't like him," Ron mutters under his breath to Harry, well within hearing distance of both Rose and Scorpius.

"Relax," Harry replies. "I'm Head of the Auror department. He steps one toe out of line, I'll know."

"You're all talk," Hermione points out calmly, pouring herself some more wine. "We all know that. You can both stop pretending to be frightening."

Ron glared at his wife. "We have to pretend; it's called parenting."

"Welcome to our whole lives," Albus says dryly and they all laugh.)

* * *

She fails the first entrance examination into Magical Law Enforcement and rips up the letter. Hermione, naturally, knows all but Rose makes her mother swear on everything in life not to tell anybody else. "I'll have to tell your father, Rosie," Hermione says gently.

"Right," Rose says. "Of course. Dad, yes; and Hugo, obviously. But nobody else."

Hermione gazes at her with some understanding and sympathy. "Nobody's going to judge you."

Rose wipes at her face, conscious of crying but hating it a little bit. " _Everybody_  will judge me." Hermione says nothing. "Mum," Rose says firmly. "You wouldn't understand."

* * *

"You failed?" Albus repeats. They are waiting for Dom to finish work; dusk is settling gradually over the city, with the first stars popping out into view.

"Yes, Albus," Rose snaps. "I failed. Make a big deal out of it, why don't you?"

Albus sounds startled when he next speaks. "I didn't."

"Then what was that tone?" Rose demands, rounding on her cousin. "As if I'm the first person to fail – that exam's really hard. And as if  _you've_  never failed anything in your life. You wouldn't have passed the exam if you studied twice as hard as I did."

Albus does not turn to face her, but she can hear the raised eyebrow in his tone. "Well, that was a bit uncalled for, don't you think?" Rose turns away, folding her arms. "And I don't care that you failed your exam; you can't do everything in life." Rose, half-aggravated and half-ashamed, glares into the distance and says nothing. "So what are you going to do?" Albus wants to know. "And before you bite my head off, I'm just asking out of curiosity. Not to  _make a big deal out of it_."

Rose turns her glower on him. "I don't know yet," she admits. "I'll take the exam again, of course. But I can't do that for another few months, even with mum's position."

Albus sighs and leans his head back against the stone of the building wall. "You could just take a year off, you know. Relax a bit."

Rose, her ire fading, sighs as well. "That's what dad says."

"Well," Albus points out, "Your dad's a pretty clever man."

Rose shakes her head adamantly. "But he's not clever in the same way that mum is. And I'm more like mum than dad."

"And what does she say?" Albus wants to know.

Rose shrugs. "She says that nobody will judge me."

They see the pub door open across the street and Dom, still laughing at someone inside, emerges. It is not until she has nearly reached them that Albus replies. "She's right."

* * *

Rose has only one muggle friend remaining from primary school, and they meet up for coffee once a month. "How's Al?" Zoe asks, pouring milk into her drink. "Still nuts about sport?"

"Oh, yeah," Rose laughs as her salad arrives. "Super into it."

"And what about the boyfriend?"

"Scorp's fine; enjoying his classes."

"What's he studying?" Zoe asks casually and Rose contemplates what the muggle equivalent of an Auror is.

"Police," she says finally.

"I can see him making a good policeman," Zoe says thoughtfully, then takes a sip of her coffee. "And what about you? Still set on law?" Rose hesitates before explaining about the exam. Zoe fails to see the problem. "You can take it again, can't you?"

"I can take it again," Rose confirms. "But it's not going to look as good on my application."

Zoe shrugs and adjusts her bangles. "I didn't get into my course the first time around either."

"But that's you," Rose says before she can stop herself.

Zoe's eyes flash upwards. "That's  _me_?" She folds her arms and leans back in her chair. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Rose protests. "Only-" She cuts herself off.

"Yes?" Zoe asks, eyes narrowed. Throughout primary school, Zoe had been envious of Rose's red hair, but in truth, Zoe has always been the prettier of the two. "What is it, Rose?" she asks. "You're at a higher standard than the rest of us?"

"That's not what I meant," Rose says, although it absolutely is what she means.

Zoe stares at her friend for a long moment before she huffs a humourless laugh. "Alright," is her only response, and she goes back to stirring her drink, although it looks like she has a lot more to say.

* * *

Rose has a spare key to Albus' apartment and she walks in on her two cousins discussing the latest Quidditch game and making dinner. "Oh, yum," she says, spooning some Bolognese sauce into her mouth.

Albus lifts his hands in the air. "Sure, Rosie," he says. "Come on in. Yes, we're making dinner. Please help yourself."

Rose sticks her tongue out at her and hops up to sit on the kitchen counter. "Tell me the truth," she says.

"Always do," Albus says, already busying himself again with the salad. Louis hums in agreement. "Louis, put some more pasta in the pot, since it doesn't look like Rose is leaving."

Rose recounts the story of her encounter with Zoe to her two cousins and when she is finished, they are purposely not looking at each other. "Oh, for Merlin's sake –  _what_?" she asks.

Louis is, predictably, the first to speak. "You failed the DMLE entrance exam?"

Albus cuts in before Rose can say anything. "Don't say that, Louis," he warns. "Rose will bite your head off."

"I will  _not_ ," Rose says, although she had been opening her mouth to do just that.

Louis dries his hands on the kitchen towel. "I don't see what you're getting so worked up about, Rose," he says. "I've been telling you that you think you're better than everyone else practically since you were born."

Rose rolls her eyes. "I always just thought you were trying to get on my nerves."

"I was," Louis says cheerfully. "But that doesn't mean it isn't true."

Albus says nothing and stirs the pasta. Rose pauses, then says, "I don't think I'm better than anyone else. But I  _am_ cleverer than Zoe."

"I wouldn't say that's true," Albus speaks up for the first time.

Rose is surprised. Albus knows Zoe almost as well as Rose does, and their friend has never displayed any sort of aptitude for school or study. "Wouldn't you?"

Albus is facing away from Rose and speaks slowly, reluctantly. "She knows a lot of things you don't."

"Like what?" Rose asks a little too forcefully.

"Settle down," Louis tells her, offering her a bowl. "It's not the end of the world."

"I'm not saying it is," Rose snaps, and takes it. Albus' bowls and plates all match, tasteful and creamy-blue in colour.

Albus turns around, finally, and turns off the stove, pouring the pasta into a strainer. Rose watches as he washes the pasta with cold water, his nimble fingers turning the strands over and over. "The truth is, Zoe is every bit as clever as you are," he says finally and Rose scoffs but says nothing in rebuttal. "And even if she weren't," Albus says. "She's every bit as good as you are."

"I don't think I'm better than her," Rose says again. And she sees her two cousins exchange a glance between them, but decides not to comment.

* * *

"It's not that I think I'm better," Rose says to her mother as they are sharing lemonade in the garden. Rose has just passed the entrance exam and Scorpius has promised to cook her dinner in celebration. "But I'm better at school, and surely that counts for something. Study is important; it can determine your entire future."

Hermione appraises her daughter. "Why does it have to count for something?" she asks finally.

Rose, momentarily disarmed, asks, "What do you mean?"

Hermione pours herself some more lemonade. "What exactly is it counting towards?"

Rose stares. "Success in life?"

Hermione grins at her. "But how would you say that success in life is measured?"

Rose is convinced her mother is being purposefully evasive. "You have a nice house, a great husband, two obedient children-" Hermione snorts at this, "- an excellent job, financial security, a stellar reputation and a brilliant family." Rose holds out two hands. "I'd say that's miles more successful than a lot of people."

"Would you?" Hermione smiles cryptically. "But am I happier than those people? Do I understand myself better?"

"I'd say you do," Rose says.

Hermione laughs. "But how do you know? Do you know all those people?"

"Are you trying to make a point, mum?" Rose asks, turning the ice in her glass with a straw.

"Yes," Hermione says. "My point is that there is no measurement of a person's success. Or their value in life. You're old enough to understand that."

"Some things can be measured," Rose says stubbornly.

Hermione looks at her daughter with something that is almost pitying. "Some things," she agrees. "Sugar, and coffee beans, and water in a glass. But not people. People can't be measured." Rose pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes and Hermione keeps talking. "They can't be measured because they're all the same. Nobody is better than anyone else."

"But they can be better  _at_  things," Rose argues.

"Of course they can be better at things," Hermione says with a laugh. "Everybody is better at something than everyone else they know – that's just how people are. But those are two completely different concepts."

"Yes," Rose says, thinking about Zoe. "But some people are better at things like dresses and make-up and talking to boys. Some people are better at school."

"Rosie, do you understand what I'm saying?" Hermione asks in a voice that suggests she strongly suspects Rose does not. "Being better  _at_  something than someone doesn't mean you're better  _than_ someone."

"I don't think that!" Rose exclaims. "I never said anything of the sort."

Hermione looks at Rose for a quiet minute. Then she says, "You've met enough people in your life to understand – it's what you don't say that's important."

* * *

(In later years, when she looks back, Rose thinks maybe she had understood all along, but refused to accept it. Hugo certainly supports this hypothesis.)

* * *

And one afternoon, they are all standing in Roxanne's backyard, hollering fit to wake every person in the neighbourhood. The moon is full that night, and so large it is almost like a face in the sky gazing down at them. Beside her, Albus is angrier than he has ever seen him; across from them, James is nearly trembling with anger. Hugo, somewhere in the mass of cousins, looks typically surprised by the screaming. She is shouting at about four people at once; at least four other people are yelling at her.

And amid being told that she is a sanctimonious bitch (by Molly) and bellowing in Lily's direction that she had  _no respect for human life_ , she hears the phrase that stops her in her tracks. Scorpius, who is busy dragging Fred away from Louis after the latter has shouted that he is a  _heartless corporate bastard who doesn't care about us_ , hears nothing, so Rose recounts it to him that night in bed.

"She said I was more arrogant than anybody she knew," Rose says, hands fisted into the sheets.

"Who did?" Scorpius asked. He has no family other than his parents and Teddy, and is understandably appalled at how quickly the argument had escalated.

"Lucy," Rose whispers.

"Lucy did?" Scorpius asks, voice saturated with shock. "I can't imagine her saying a bad word to anyone." Considering this, he amends, "Nor Fred. Nor Dom.  _Definitely_  not Al."

Rose puts a hand to her forehead. "We were angry. And we're family. It's not the first fight we've had."

"Is it the worst?" Scorpius asks quietly.

"Yes," Rose says at length. "But only because we're older now. We understand what we're saying."

Scorpius flips onto his side. "I still don't understand how it started."

Rose does not move from her position. "Secrets. That's how it started."

Scorpius continues to gaze at her. "So, Lucy said you were arrogant? And you believe her?"

"It's Lucy," Rose says. "She's not the kind of person who just says things in anger. She said it, and she meant it. But that wasn't all."

"Oh?" Scorpius says, finally lying back.

"She said that I was so guilty of hubris that if I didn't start to resolve it, I would never be fixed – and that I was an idiot for not seeing it myself."

Scorpius frowns. "What's hubris?"

Rose sighs and closes her eyes. Zoe flashes through her mind that day in the café, soft black jacket and jewel-toned scarf and silver hoop earrings and styled dark hair and eyes sparkling in anger; Louis and Albus looking sideways at each other in the kitchen; Hermione staring at her with dark, sympathetic eyes. "Thinking you're better than everybody else." Scorpius says nothing and Rose finally turns her head to look at him. "Is it true? Do I really think I'm better than everybody else?"

Scorpius says nothing for such a long time that she considers repeating her question, but before she does, he reaches out and pulls her closer, pressing his lips to the side of her head. "I couldn't say. I also think you're better than everybody else."

* * *

All her life, Rose has been cleverer than other people. It is a fact that she cannot help. "Can I?" she asks.

Hugo looks surprised at her question. "Of course you can't help it. And why would you?"

"Because," Rose says, half-exasperated, "apparently, nobody likes it."

Hugo stares at his sister. "Rose," he says. "You're an idiot."

She licks the ice cream off the small plastic spoon. "Thanks."

Hugo is partial to an ice cream stand that travels around his suburb. They had walked for twenty minutes before finding it but Rose does not complain. The hazelnut scoop is delicious. Hugo chooses vanilla ("Hugo, are you serious?") and is eating it while contemplating his sister. "What people have a problem with is you behaving like you're better than them."

Rose feels the familiar defensiveness build up in her chest. "I don't behave like that!"

" _Don't you?_ "

" _Do I_?"

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Hugo, never one for large dramatic moments, breaks the eye contact and shrugs. "You kind of do."

Rose folds her arms coldly. "Well, thank you for letting me know."

"You shouldn't ask questions if you don't want to know the answer, Rosie."

"Fine," Rose shouts, her temper flaring suddenly. "You say I behave like I think I'm better than everyone. How do I stop?"

Hugo shrugs and does not rise to the bait. "Stop thinking you're better than everyone."

"I do  _not_."

Hugo stops in the middle of the darkening street abruptly and flings his hands into the air in frustration. "Rose, for God's sake, you do _._  You  _do._  And it is  _not_  a good thing. You are  _not perfect._ Why can't you just  _accept_  that?" It is the first time Hugo has raised his voice at her in a long time. Rose's mouth falls open a little and she is shocked into silence.

Hugo has never been a talented student. His marks are average at best, he is rubbish at Quidditch and he has never been awarded a leadership position of any kind. But Hermione's words suddenly drift into his mind –  _Am I happier? Do I understand myself better_? Hugo knows himself better than anyone Rose has ever met. He understands his faults, he accepts them, he loves them, and he chases his dreams, no matter how small they are. Rose has spent so long thinking that marks and aptitude are more important than anything else that it is difficult for her to reconcile, but looking at her brother, it clicks into place for a brief moment. "I'm not better than you," she says in a quiet voice.

Hugo blinks at this and nods slowly. "I know that."

"I don't  _want_  to think I'm better than you."

Hugo sighs and takes a bite of his ice cream. "I know that too."

Rose pauses, then says in a small voice, "Do I really think I'm better than everyone else?" Hugo says nothing but it is answer enough. She feels a sudden prickling of tears in her eyes. "Am I that bad?"

Hugo blinks. "You're not bad at all," he says gently. "You're actually very good. You have a kink here or there. But so do we all." Rose, unconvinced, says nothing but looks in the other direction. "Rosie, don't sulk. It isn't going to fix the problem."

Rose, slightly stung and mostly curious, says, "So what will?"

Hugo looks at her with his knowing hazel eyes, and Rose feels a rather out-of-place rush of pride that the wisest of their messy little generation is her brother and nobody else's. His answer stays with her the rest of her life; it is one of her greatest lessons and the best piece of advice she ever gets.

"Trying to be better."

* * *

Scorpius' parents have never been a large part of their dating life, but Rose has met them more than a few times. The first time she had been invited to Malfoy Manor, Ron had hissed and shouted, and Hermione had gone so pale that Hugo had put a hand on her elbow and asked her whether she needed to sit down. But Rose had gone nonetheless, albeit warily, with a smile on her face and wearing her best dress.

As much as she knows about the Wizarding War, she still has trouble reconciling the Malfoys with her parents' stories. Astoria Malfoy is probably the nicest person she has ever met; Draco, while a little stiff and quiet, is perfectly civil to her.

As much as they are pleasant to her, though, it is a little awkward when she shows up at Malfoy Manor to see their son, and he has Apparated to France to help Teddy with his anniversary plans. "Oh," Rose says as they both rise from the little table in the breakfast room. "He's not here?"

"Feel free to wait," Astoria says, although Draco shoots her a slightly tense look. "We're just having some tea and scones. We'd love to have you join us."

Rose, strangely nervous, takes a place at the table and Draco pours her a cup of tea. "Thanks," she says. The casual word seems out of place in the Malfoy household. "How have you both been?"

Astoria seems to understand her edginess and smiles at her. "We actually attended a party at my mother and father's house last night. Scorpius came along – no doubt he told you about it." Scorpius has told her about it. "My parents adore him, and they adore Draco as well."

"Oh?" Rose asks. The scones are delicious – light and fluffy, and the jam is just the right amount of sweet.

"Yes," Astoria says. "It gives them great pride; having a son-in-law with the Malfoy name." She looks keenly at Rose. "Perhaps you'll have one yourself one day."

Draco chokes slightly on his tea and Rose herself almost passes out. " _What_?" she says. "Oh my God, Mrs. Malfoy-"

Astoria waves a hand with a grin that is slightly more relaxed now. "Perhaps," she says again. "Only perhaps."

Rose stuffs another bite of scone into her mouth to avoid having to respond. Draco clears his throat when it becomes clear that his wife is not going to say anything else. "And how are your parents?"

Rose gets the impression that he is only asking out of common courtesy so she keeps her answers brief. "Pretty well. Dad loves working in the shop, and he's trying to get Hugo to work there a bit, but he's not getting far with that. Mum's busy at work."

"And how are you?" Astoria asks and Rose turns gratefully away from Draco's gaze. "Scorpius tells me that your family had a bit of a tiff recently."

Rose, surprised, says, "He told you about that?" Scorpius does not talk much about his parents and Rose had, for some reason, interpreted this as meaning they are not close. But she can see that her boyfriend is, at least, open with his mother. "Yes, that's right – we had quite a large spat. But it's alright; everything's sorted now."

Astoria butters another scone. "I never fought much with my siblings myself. I was often ill as a child, so they couldn't pick on me too much. Besides, none of us had particularly voracious tempers."

Draco snorts; a sound that Rose would never in a thousand years have associated with Draco Malfoy. "Yes, Daphne is a paragon of tranquillity."

Astoria lifts an eyebrow at her husband but continues to smile at Rose. "Usually, my siblings directed their tempers outwards to others rather than towards the family."

Rose finishes her tea. Before she can lift a finger, Draco is already pouring her another cup. "That happens in my family too," she says quietly. "But sometimes, everything boils over a bit."

"Given your family, I am not surprised by this in the slightest," Draco says, then lifts his hands as Astoria glares at him. "No offense intended."

Rose grins. "My dad says the same thing," she tells him, and watches the vague horror that crosses Draco's face that he and Ron Weasley have something in common.

Astoria hands Rose another scone. (Hermione has asked Rose what it is like going to Malfoy Manor. Rose knows all about how her mother had been tortured there, but can only give an honest answer. "Nice," she says.

"Really?" Hermione asks, eyes wide with foreboding and slight curiosity.

"They feed me. A lot.")

"Does it bother you?" Draco asks quietly and Rose looks around in surprise again. "Fighting with your family?"

Rose considers the question. "It depends on what's said." Then adds, "This one was pretty bad." Both the Malfoys are watching her suddenly with inquisitive gazes. She knows that they want to hear more about it, and although she does not know them very well, and they will never be friends with her own parents, one day they may be (loathe as Rose is to think about it at this point in her life), grandparents to her children. "I've been quite forcefully informed that I apparently think I'm better than everyone else."

And then, something bizarre happens. Draco starts to laugh. Rose has never seen the resemblance between her boyfriend and his father, but now, as his face lights up with genuine mirth, she does. Astoria gives her husband an amused smile. "Strange, isn't it? How family patterns repeat themselves." She asks Rose, "What does Scorpius have to say about it?"

"Nothing helpful," Rose says.

"Probably desensitised," Draco says, mirth still in his eyes. "Oh, this is priceless. How the tables have turned." At Rose's frown, he clarifies, "It's something that I got accused of a lot by your own parents; when we were young."

This does not comfort Rose in the slightest. She has heard stories about adolescent Draco Malfoy. Noticing her expression, Draco adds, "I'm sure you're nowhere near as bad as I was."

"That would be impossible," Astoria adds and Draco scowls at her. Rose can't help but smile – they are as affectionate towards each other as her own parents, although she is sure that both men would be appalled at yet another comparison between them. "It's alright," Astoria says to Rose. "It's not the worst quality you could have."

Rose twists the tablecloth between her hands before remembering that is probably worth more than the entire contents of her own kitchen and releasing it. "I'm trying to be better," she says quietly before she can stop herself.

Draco looks at her, a strange expression on his face. "Look," he says abruptly, and brings his palms down onto the table. It rattles the silverware slightly and Astoria glares at her husband before dropping a lump of sugar into her tea. "It's hard to stop thinking you're better than other people, but it is possible. The best place to start is with the people closest to you. Because you know them so well, it's easy to see where they're better than you – that can help to see them as equals. It gets easier after that." He looks up to see both Rose and his wife staring at him, and shrinks back a little. "Er…" he says, then says hastily to Rose, "Don't worry – you're young. As long as you're aware of it, it'll be alright in the end."

Astoria is the one to break the silence, with a deadpan tone. Rose is beginning to understand their relationship – and where Scorpius get his mischievous sense of humour from. "Draco," she says to him conversationally, "how touching." Draco's awkwardness fades into yet another affectionate glower.

"I was simply attempting to help."

"Oh, of course," Astoria replies airily, winking at Rose. "Merlin forbid that you should ever seem  _nice_."

Rose laughs.

* * *

After Scorpius has finished apologising countless times for forgetting their date (and she lets him get to around twenty or thirty before she starts telling him that he is, of course, forgiven, and why is he making such a fuss?), he asks, rather apprehensively, what she and his parents got up to together.

"We had tea and scones," Rose says, a hand on his arm comfortingly. "And became really good friends."

"Really?" Scorpius asks, and suddenly Rose sees how much he wants this to be true. She wonders how she ever missed it in the first place.

She presses her lips to his cheek. "Your dad actually helped me out with something," she tells him.

" _Really_?" Scorpius asks.

And although she can see Ron and Hemione's disgruntled faces in her mind, Rose says truthfully, "Your dad's a good man."

* * *

"Liked your book," Rose tells Hugo as soon as he opens the door. Dressed in pyjamas with a mug of cocoa, he blinks owlishly at her before stepping aside and gesturing her in. She removes her coat and hangs it up. "It was funny."

"It wasn't supposed to be," Hugo comments, stifling a yawn.

"It's eleven o'clock," Rose says, pulling a disgusted face. "Are you planning on going out today?"

"No, but I am planning to put on a jumper," Hugo says with a grin.

"Revolting," Rose pronounces, then goes to the kitchen and helps herself to the eggs.

Hugo flops down over an armchair and watches her as she turns the stove on. "What did you think of your character?"

Rose cracks two eggs into the pan and laughs genuinely. "She's a bit annoying."

Hugo chuckles. "She is, isn't she?"

"And she has a terrible fashion sense," Rose continues.

Hugo tips his head back, his eyes rolling. "They're characters, Rose. I didn't take everything from you."

"She isn't very self-aware either," Rose says.

"That I did take from you," Hugo admits.

"She doesn't know herself at all," Rose says, leaving the eggs to fry and leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter towards her brother. "But she doesn't need to. Her family knows her better than she knows herself."

Hugo's book is well-written and lovely, with just the right hints of sadness and love; but the experience that Rose has while she reads it is one that only a select group will understand. Ever since childhood, Hugo had been an observer. Only after reading his book does Rose appreciate how much he sees in the people around him.

"She's better at the end than she was at the beginning," Hugo says quietly. "That's all we can ever hope for."

"And she lives happily ever after too."

Hugo lifts his head. He rubs his wrists together, he drinks his cocoa, he smiles at his sister like she is the best thing in the world. "Yeah," he says. "She does."


	11. Home Is Where the Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For any and all who have missed one or another of the Potter-Weasley cousins, this is my first attempt at writing them as an ensemble cast. They converge in the story, rather like fireworks colliding. Enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling's, fireworks and all.

_**xi. Home is Where the Heart Is** _

_Roxanne_

Roxanne Weasley has a good life. Besides Louis, with whom she had shared every class and most meals and occasional essays, and Fred, for whom she would sacrifice her very soul, her best friends are neither Weasleys nor Potters. The tight knot of cousins has never been her natural habitat, but she likes to float around the outside, cultivating individual relationships with her family members.

She knows that Fred has always worried about seeming distant, but it is Roxie's favourite vantage point; observing the cousins from the perimeter; seeing them succeed; watching them learn from their mistakes.

But she loves the family, in a different way from her friends – in a distant way, but fiercer too. They are her pack – and, as she says to her mother musingly, lions protect their pack.

* * *

Matthew is a mistake that she herself makes; a serendipitous one that changes her life.

She does not know much about Christianity, but Dom makes her acutely aware of their traditional views of witchcraft. "Are you going to tell him?" her cousins asks with concerned eyes. Hikaru remains silent but he looks equally worried.

"I'll not make a lie of my life," Roxie says. "You of all people should understand that."

Dom smiles, if a little hesitantly. "I do."

Matthew defies any expectation she might have had, and turns out to be delighted. "You're not…" Roxie trails off, not knowing what emotion she is anticipating – fear? Anger? Hate?

"It's beautiful," Matthew says with child-like wonder. "It's a gift."

_From God_ , Roxie fills in mentally, and she cannot honestly say that he is wrong, and when her cousins ask her afterwards, she tells them that this is the moment when she starts to believe.

* * *

Teddy comes to her door the night before the wedding with a wrapped box and a smile. "This is for you," he says and she takes it.

"You and Vic already gave me a gift," she points out, surprised but Teddy just gestures for her to open it. Inside the meticulously packaged box is a framed picture of Teddy and all the cousins playing in the garden of The Burrow. " _Merlin and Agrippa_ ," Roxie exclaims, staring. It looks like she is about six years old, in a red dress that clashes hideously with her hair. "Look at that hair," she says despairingly. "What a haircut."

Teddy laughs. "My nan took that photo and she gave it to me when Vic and I got engaged. I gave one to James when he got married too; and Dom." Roxie gazes at the picture. They are all so young. It is a little difficult for her to reconcile the image with her cousins now, powerful and grown and good. "I know you must have lots of pictures of you all as kids," Teddy continues, and Roxie realises that he is a little embarrassed. "But I thought this one would be a nice present; a picture of all the cousins." She looks up at him and he rubs his hands together. "I mean," he adds, "I know I'm not really one of you, but-"

She has never much been one for hugs, but she lays a hand on his arm and says, "Of course you're one of us." He blinks at her and smiles. "Thank you," she adds quietly. "This is…This means a lot to me."

"I think that haircut is great," he replies and she laughs.

"It's so strange," Roxie tells him. "How young we were. Doesn't seem like that long ago, but so much as has happened since then."

"Yeah," Teddy agrees.

Roxie smiles down at the photograph again. (It sits on the mantelpiece of her and Matthew's house and it makes her smile every time she looks at it.) "To be honest," she says to Teddy, who is watching her. "I can't really believe we made it here." And then, she amends, "I can't really believe we made it here alive and all together."

And Teddy laughs at that and recites a phrase that he picked up from Matthew himself, "Amen, Hallelujah."

* * *

They fight, in a flurry of fists and fury and fire.

It is nothing new – tempers are bound to fray sometimes, and everything blows over in a day or two. But usually, the arguments pop up between factions of the family, and the rest of them are there to pull them apart and knock their heads together until everyone comes to their sense.

Today, there is only Roxie.

* * *

She had cooked them dinner.

It is the first time she has had them all over at the same time, and since they will not fit in her dining room, she sets up a long, rustic table in the garden, under the moonlight.

("Victoire was late," she recounts to Matthew later that night. "And that's how it started.")

"Hey," Roxie says, gesturing to the empty chair that has been left for her oldest cousin.

"We've got a problem," Vic says, looking utterly distracted.

"What is it?" at least four voices chorus.

Vic's gaze shifts from James to Teddy to Albus, and finally, reluctantly, to Lily. "A man came into the hospital today. Into my office. Shouting about the Potters."

"Us?" Albus asked, leaning forward to see his cousin.

"What man?" Louis asks at the same time.

Victoire takes a bread roll but makes no attempt to put it on her plate. Roxie gets the impression she only wants to occupy her hands. "School friend of yours, James," she says. Fred glances across the table.

"Oh?" James asks, and spills a little bit of the juice he's pouring as he looks over.

"Yeah," Vic says resignedly and Roxie glances over at the Potters. Albus and James look equally nonplussed but Lily has gone very still. "He said you gave him a black eye."

All three of them freeze and the look that passes between them is one of vague horror. "Oh, shit," James says, and puts the juice jug back down.

* * *

"She had an abortion?" Matthew repeats, his eyebrows nearly at the level of his hairline.

"And she never told anyone," Roxie says.

"My goodness," Matthew says, although his tone holds no condemnation. "Why didn't she ever say anything?"

"That's exactly what we asked."

* * *

"Because it was  _my_  business," Lily says, her eyes narrowed into slits. "And nobody else's; so can the lot of you please just  _fuck off_."

"Can we focus?" Victoire says sharply, trying to fend off an argument.

("It was a good try," Roxie says to Matthew. "But rather unsuccessful.")

"He says he's going to expose Lily to the press," Vic continues. "He's going to the newspapers in the morning."

"What does he want?" Teddy asks, a nervous note in his voice. "Money?"

"I don't know," Vic says helplessly. "Security dragged him out."

Fred folds his arms. His eyes are cold but his tone is quite reasonable. "This is Sean we're talking about," he says. "He's our best mate. We could just talk to him."

"He  _was_  your best mate," Louis mutters and Fred's eyes flash but James cuts in.

"I don't  _care_  what he wants," he says furiously. "I beat him up once; I'm going to do it again."

("He's gone there now to do just that," Roxie says to Matthew after the fact. "Sean Reece isn't going to be telling anyone anything about this family.")

"I'm still confused," Molly says, although her tone indicates that she is not at all confused. "When did this happen and why did this happen and why on earth are we just finding out about it now?"

Lily folds her arms as well and they all know how far she has come, but for a moment, Roxie can see the mean, crystal-sharp, cutting young woman who had spiralled into a world of drugs and shady men after Hogwarts. "Molly, not everything that happens is your business."

"You're my family," Molly bites back and Albus lowers his face into his hands. "You  _are_  my business."

"And you know now," James says hastily.

"Lily," Dom says quietly, who has been quiet until now and, Roxie thinks, has not heard a single word of the last minute of conversation. "Are you sure this was a wise decision?"

And they will never know if Dom is condemning Lily or expression a genuine concern for her well-being, because Lily lets out a laugh that Roxie privately thinks could be where the  _wicked witch_  stigma among Muggles comes from. "Dom, did you imagine that just because  _you_  can't have children, we're all just going to go around popping them out?" Dom stiffens. "Because our lives don't exactly revolve around  _your_  personal tragedy."

* * *

"She didn't say that," Matthew says, his eyes huge in the darkness of the living room.

Roxie shifts uncomfortably. "If you know Lily for long enough, you learn that she doesn't mean the things she says."

"Then why does she say them?" Matthew asks.

Roxie stares across the darkness of their living room. "Because she's a Potter. She doesn't like to lose."

* * *

Louis' voice is low and dangerous, and full of something that Roxie has never heard from him. "You take that back. Take it back  _now_."

Lily, admittedly, looks a little cowed by her own words for a moment but they don't call it Potter pride for no reason. "I'm not saying anything that's not true."

Louis stands up, full of fury. "You little  _bitch_."

" _Hey_ ," Albus says, because even now, he can't help defending his little sister.

"Don't argue," Vic, ever concerned, says. "Don't. Louis, sit down. Lily, just apologise."

Lily stands as well and Roxie closes her eyes in despair. This can only go downhill from here. "I will not apologise; I had every right to say that."

"No, you didn't," Fred protested immediately. "That was messed up."

Molly gets to her feet as well. "Lily, don't be so difficult – just say you're sorry."

"I said  _no_."

James rises. "Can't you just stay out of this, Molly?"

"Oh, can't  _you_  find a sense of decency?" Fred shoots back immediately.

James looks at his friend, half fury, half smugness, and belatedly, Roxie remembers something that Matthew always says.  _People who love you know how to hurt you._

"I'm surprised you think you have a say," James announces to the table at large and Fred's eyes narrow. "It's not like you're ever around to care."

* * *

"And then Fred punched him?" Matthew asks in a soft voice. Roxie can understand his surprise – Fred is not a violent person by nature. But he will defend his own beliefs with a fervour that he keeps well hidden, and Roxie has seen it manifest in violence at least a handful of times in their childhood.

"And James punched back."

"But," Matthew says hesitantly, "they're so…close."

Roxie sighs and rests her head on Matthew's shoulder. "I know."

* * *

They have fought before, but Roxie thinks maybe it is in the little things. The look of hurt that flashes across Dom's face before her eyes harden into steely blue; the way Lucy folds her arms across her chest as if she needs to protect herself (and really, they are the very people she should never have to protect herself again); the way that Lily's lips press together after every sentence she speaks because she knows that she has gone too far; Albus' pinched look that shows he is trying not to cry; Fred's clenched fists by his sides; the way Rose's hand keeps going to her mouth like she wants to stop.

But the Potters and the Weasleys have never been good at stopping. They are good at pushing and pushing and pushing. Sometimes, they push each together up. Tonight is not one of those times.

* * *

Something that Roxie finds funny about the situation, even years later, is the response of the family members who have not grown with them. Matthew is inside (and won't this make a story to tell afterwards), but Hikaru, Scorpius and Parker are all trying to break up the fight with dumbstruck expression on their faces.

Scorpius is trying and failing to pull Fred off Louis. "Fred," he mutters, but Fred is fighting with all his strength to be released. "Fred, c'mon."

Rose is shrieking at Lucy, who, despite her normal mild manner, is giving as good as she receives; Parker tugs at Lucy's elbow in an attempt to quell her temper. Molly is shouting at the top of her lungs and James is shouting back; Teddy is shaking James' shoulder to get him to stop; Vic is trying to speak over them all, but Lily's voice is too loud and insistent.

Hugo is the only Weasley left seated, and Roxie glances down at him. He shrugs up at her. "Aren't you going to do something?" Hikaru asks her hesitantly.

And even though Roxie's own temper is rising – she had cooked them  _dinner_  and here they are fighting like children in her meticulous garden – she shakes her head. "Not yet."

* * *

"So why  _did_  you step in?" Matthew asks, genuinely curious.

Roxie is quiet for a moment. Then – "They started throwing the food."

Matthew laughs.

* * *

Nothing that Scorpius or Hikaru or Parker try is making any leeway. "Guys,  _stop_ ," Scorpius says.

They don't.

Rose picks up a bread roll and slings it at Louis. Lily retaliates with Roxie's hummus. And then food really starts to  _fly_ and Roxie decides, enough is enough.

"Roxie," Parker says in alarm and takes her arm as she starts forward, but she shakes him off and wades into the group. Without speaking, she takes the back of James' jumper and hauls him forcibly off her brother. James looks around, surprised, but Roxie has already shoved him to one side and grabs the Louis' ear (he howls in protest) and pulls him away from his own argument before taking hold of the collar of Molly's shirt and yanking her away from Lily and Albus. She feels her hair coming loose from its ponytail, but she does not care.

"What," she demands loudly, turning in a circle and glaring at them, "is the matter with you lot?"

There is an electric silence in the garden as they all catch their breath.

"Rox," Dom says quietly, and Roxie is gratified to see some semblance of embarrassment on her cousin's face.

"Nope," she snaps. "You've all had your turn and you don't get to speak. Shut up," she adds as Fred opens his mouth, then repeats, "Just shut  _up_."

"I haven't said anything," he protests.

"You've said plenty," Roxie shouts, and her voice rings through the garden and out into the night. They make a right sight, standing there in the pooling moonlight, sprawled across the garden like bizarre figurines, anger fizzling in the air and leaking over the grass.

Everything breaking apart.

Then suddenly, like a cloak falling from her shoulders, the anger drain out of her and Roxie feels nothing but tired. "Just leave," she says quietly. "All of you. Just…just go home, and don't speak to anyone else or each other." She feels inexplicable tears pooling in her eyes. "Just go."

And none of them moves for a moment, but then Vic throws her a grateful look and Disapparates with a  _crack_. Within minutes, they are all gone.

* * *

They sit there in the darkness as Roxie retells the entire event and after she is finished, they are both quiet for a moment.

Then Matthew says, in a somewhat state of shock, "I only went to get the mustard."

* * *

Monthly lunch at the Burrow is scheduled for the next Sunday and Roxie is not surprised when she is the only one out of the cousins who shows up.

"What's happened?" Bill asks as soon as he sees her. "What's going on?"

"Just a fight," Roxie says, because they have had their turn to make mistakes. "That's all."

"That's  _all_?" Ginny asks incredulously. "James, Al and Lily won't even talk to each other."

"It was the worst pasta night ever," Harry mutters then glares as Ron laughs.

Audrey says, "Roxie, we're worried. You lot don't fight. Not like this."

"When will you make up?" Angelina wants to know

Roxie measures her words carefully. "Some hurtful things were said."

Fleur replies quietly, "We heard."

Angelina responds to Roxie's raised eyebrow. "Fred came home that night." This surprises Roxie. "He was a bit shook up," Angelina continues, looking around the table until her gaze comes to rest on Ginny and Harry, almost apologetically. "He said he punched James."

Harry does not seem the least bit surprised. "I think we all know James probably asked for it."

"He did," Roxie says.

Ron shakes his head. "What can we do?"

Roxie laughs. It is typical of her parents and her aunts and uncles. They always want to  _do_  something. "Nothing," she tells them. "We can sort it out amongst ourselves."

* * *

"I lied," Roxie says, throwing her bag down on the sofa beside Matthew, where he is reading.

"Hello," he says slowly. "What did you lie about, exactly?"

"I told my parents that we could sort this out amongst ourselves, but that was a blatant untruth."

He puts the book down. "What happened?"

What had happened was that Roxie had gone to Fred and told him that it was time to make up with James and Louis and Albus and Rose and all the rest of them. And Fred had folded his arms and said, "I will when they do."

"Which, by the way," Roxie says, frustrated, "is never."

Matthew leans forward. Roxie knows that her family absolutely fascinates him; he has one sister but no cousins. "They won't be brought 'round?"

Roxie rolls her head backwards and feels the muscles stretch. "I thought that after a while, it'd die down and it'd be fine. We're family. That's supposed to be bigger than anything else, right? It's a rule of the universe." Matthew snorts at this. "But I forgot that my family doesn't like to follow rules – which in general is quite a useful trait, but in this case, is a distinct disadvantage." She sighs. "A fatal flaw."

Matthew says nothing for a moment. "' _The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves_.'"

Roxie looks up. "Is that from the Bible?"

Matthew laughs. "No." He gestures to the book. "It's Shakespeare. From his play, ' _Julius Caesar'_."

Roxie props her chin on her forearm. "The fault is not in our stars," she repeats, and lets the message sink into her skin. "But in ourselves."

* * *

"Why," she says, "do you think that my family is so stubborn?"

They are eating next to the window and Matthew lowers his fork thoughtfully. "I have no idea. Lots of people are, I think."

"You aren't," she points out.

Matthew thinks on this for a moment. "Pride," he says, "goes before destruction."

Roxie recognises this. " _Proverbs_ ," she cites the quote accurately.

"It's wise to admit wrongs," Matthew says.

"Yes, it is," Roxie murmurs, twirling her spaghetti on her fork. "And the Weasleys and the Potters have been called many things, but I don't know if  _wise_  has ever been one of them."

Early in their relationship, when Roxie was still learning about Matthew's religion, she had asked, "I believe in all this stuff – truth and honour and love and faith. I do believe in it – it's God I'm having trouble believing in."

She had expected Matthew not to understand, but he had surprised her yet again. "It's difficult," her boyfriend had said. "God is a concept that you can't see, or touch, or smell, or hear. A book tells you all this stuff that he allegedly wants, but that's hardly proof." Roxie nods. "But," Matthew continues, "all the things you believe in – they  _are_  God."

"What do you mean?"

"All those things are things that He told us," Matthew says. "And things that He wants us to embody. And after all," Matthew finishes, "aren't we just a summation of the things we say and do?"

* * *

Fred rings her, with a voice full of forced calm, and tells her to come to the hospital, and to tell mum and dad, please, because he's got Rose on another line and she is absolutely freaking out. "Of course," Roxie says, hangs up and phones straight to her childhood home.

George's voice is tight with the same affliction that grips her brother – an all-consuming terror of something,  _anything_ , happening to the family. "No," Roxie says gently. "Dad, I don't know what happened to Al; but I don't think it's too bad, otherwise Fred would have said so."

She rings Matthew next, tells him that she'll be home late, and Apparates to St. Mungo's. Albus is in a private room on the ground floor, and a very harassed administrator is standing in the hallway just outside the room. "Please, there's chairs just down the hall."

"I'm staying here," a muffled voice said. "We all are; just leave us alone."

Roxie looks over the man's shoulder and sees a group of her cousins seated on the floor against the corridor walls. "Hi."

The young administrator turns, a grateful expression on his face. "Ma'am, these people-"

"-are my cousins," she finishes, pulling her bag off her shoulder. "And take it from someone who grew up with them – they're not going to move." From the bag, she pulls an apple and offers it to Louis, who takes it with a muttered word of thanks. The administrator stares at her. "He's always hungry," she explains, then sits down next to him.

"He's fine," Dom says. It sounds to Roxie like she has been crying. "Just an accident; it'll take a while for him to get back on his feet, but he's not in any danger."

Fred is the only one not there yet. "Did he call you?"

It takes a moment before Louis realises she is talking to him. "No," he says. "It was Dom."

"Why would you think that Fred would want to talk to you?" Rose pipes up, then as she sees Roxie's expression, adds, "I'm just saying. He definitely didn't sound like he wanted to talk to me."

"If you think," Roxie says slowly, "that Fred's going to let an  _argument_ get in the way of telling you about something like this, you're not giving him any credit at all."

"He's got a point, though, Rox," Molly says. "They said some pretty vile things to each other."

"Like you're innocent of that," Lucy comments quietly, and more than one person opens their mouth to speak, but they are all interrupted.

"Are you lot  _serious_?" Roxie demands, looking around at them. "This is a hospital. Your cousin is lying in a bed in this hospital. Who  _cares_  about the argument?"

"Al is fine," Rose says, equally fiercely, although quieter and with a slight quaver in her voice. "And you threw orange juice on me," she tells Louis indignantly.

"Lucy threw salad on  _me_ ," Louis points out in a fit of outrage and Roxie hits him on the arm.

" _Listen_ to you all," she says. A woman with a crying child walks past, throwing them an odd look, before disappearing around the corner.

"We're annoyed with each other," Dom says in a peaceable voice. "Why does it bother you so much, Roxie?"

Roxie turns to Dom. "The fault," she recites, "is not in our stars, but in ourselves."

Hugo speaks up for the first time. "Shakespeare. ' _Julius Caesar_ '."

Molly looks mutinous. "I don't see-"

"Don't you?" Roxie cuts across her. "The fault is in  _ourselves_ , Molly. Us. Nobody else. If we want to resolve this argument, which we do-" Louis snorts, and Roxie continues, ' _which we do_ , we've got to accept responsibility for it." She looks around at them. "Nobody here is innocent in this. Nobody here is a child. Accepting that you said something uncalled for, and apologising for it shouldn't be the end of the world."

"Some of us said worse things than others, though," Louis argues. "And Lily; she started it-"

"This is exactly my point," Roxie says, waving her arms in the air. She is confident that she looks quite mad to anyone passers-by. The must, she thinks suddenly with a maddening urge to laugh, look like a support group escaped from the mental ward. "You're all waiting for somebody else to apologise first, but there  _is_  nobody else. There's just us." She looks around at them. "Just us," she repeats. "And our pride, which is getting in our way. Just us and our mistakes. And the people we've hurt."

"Hear, hear," Hugo says, stretching out his legs.

"And in a hospital," Roxie says disapprovingly but in a lighter tone. "I'm ashamed of the lot of you."

Rose frowns. "I can't say sorry if I'm still angry," she points out, a little petulantly.

Roxie folds her arms. Clearly, reasonable appeal is not enough and it is time for Weasley tactic number two. "Albus got lucky today. If he'd fallen at any other angle, he'd have died. He would have  _died_ , Rosie." She glares as her cousin wilts. "But," she adds, knowing exactly what to say next, "I suppose that doesn't matter since you have such conviction in your moral high-ground. Naturally;  _you're_  never wrong."

Rose bursts into tears and Dom throws an arm out to her immediately. Molly, the least moved by emotional speeches, says, "So you think we should all just say we're wrong, because there's no point in arguing?"

Roxie smiles down at her hands. All her cousins, and her brother, have asked what it is about religion that she likes. She finds it helpful, and she tells them so truthfully. She is nowhere near as devout as Matthew's family, but she finds it comforting, and beautiful, and wise. God, although the more cynical among her cousins scoff at the idea, is a source of comfort and wisdom to her too.

But more than anything else, He is a source of forgiveness and love; and He shows her why they are such important qualities.

"I think that you  _are_  wrong," she says gently. "And I think you should admit it. Because-" She considers saying something about God, but Molly, ever narrow-minded, will only reject it, "it's the right thing to do."

She can see it register in their eyes. Her cousins are good people; such good people that it sometimes shocks her. They have tempers and flaws, as everyone does, but in their hearts, they love so fiercely that it is almost impossible to conceive. They are the strongest proof that Roxie has of God's existence and she thanks Him for them every day.

Lucy looks up slowly at Louis and says, "I'm sorry about the salad. And for the rest of it."

And Louis says, equally slow, "Me too."

Molly nods.

Hugo looks across at Roxie and grins slightly. Guilt, Roxie thinks. It works better than any amount of reason in this family.

* * *

"Well, I did it," Roxie announces, smiling at Matthew, who is leaning over the sink, up to his elbows in dish soap.

"You did it?" he repeats.

"I fixed the family," she tells him.

Matthew gives her a smile and goes back to washing the dishes. "I knew you would," he says.

"You did?" she asks. "How?"

He shrugs. "I have faith." Roxie is floored by this comment, and touched, and too flattered to express it. Noticing her expression, he asks, "So how did you do it?"

She smirks at him. His eyes sparkle under the kitchen lights, and she thinks to herself,  _He's here. God is here._ "Shakespeare," she tells him and he lifts an eyebrow inquisitively. "But God helped too." He smiles at that. "And so did you."

* * *

Roxie is the one who helps Hugo distribute his book to the family. It is a plain blue cover, so typical of Hugo's taste, and the title is embossed in silver and black.

She, Fred, Louis, Dom and Victoire all take their books out to the beach behind Shell Cottage and read together on a Sunday afternoon. There is a great deal of commenting, laughing and teasing that goes on, and Roxie giggles when she recognises mannerisms and speech.

The characters in the book don't argue like they had, but they do go through some fairly tough things, and right near the end of the book, Hugo has one character confront another about  _responsibility_ and  _faults_. It is not until Dom points it out that Roxie realises it is her.

"He actually quotes you, doesn't he?" Dom asks.

Roxie scans the page, then shakes her head. "Not exactly, I don't think."

"It is a powerful speech, though," Louis says. "And it was in real life too."

"I wonder," Victoire says, who was not present at the time but had received a full recount from her brother and sister, "what would have happened if you hadn't stepped in that day."

Roxie says what she genuinely believes, and that is, "It would have been fine – we're family. Everything would have worked out in the end."

"You are a part of the family," Fred says, and Roxie looks over at him. Fred winks at her, teasingly but genuinely. "We might have fallen apart without you."

"Don't be ridiculous," she splutters, because it is a ridiculous concept. The Potters and Weasleys falling apart is something that will never happen. And she has never been so involved in the family that she could influence them in such powerful ways; not like Victoire or James or Dom or Molly.

But Teddy is utterly serious as he says, "He's not being ridiculous." Roxie tilts her head towards him as he continues. "You might think you're on the outside, but this family needs someone like that. Everyone's too emotional for us all to function smoothly on our own."

"It's like Vic's head of the family," Dom joked. "And you're the brain."

They all laugh at that. "What an image," Roxie says as she grins around at them.

"Well, you've always been my brain," Fred tells her, eyes bright with mirth and affection.

Louis' blue eyes are on her, and besides Fred, he knows her best. "Roxanne Weasley," he says, and although the day is light and there is a lovely breeze and Roxie herself is already half-laughing, his voice is quite solemn. "You're our rock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Matthew is among the OCs I have created for this version of the Potter-verse, and they are as richly developed as the canon characters, even if they do not pop up quite as often. If anybody is curious to know more about them, do not hesitate to let me know.


	12. Like Father, Like Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've been stuck on this penultimate chapter for many moons. In some very obscure way, it hearkens back to the first few chapters. The Potter kids are the very heart of this story, really, and I hope the middle one does his siblings proud.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, except the husbands, the Healer, and his enthusiasm for coloured markers.

_Albus_

Albus Severus Potter had, at the age of eleven, decided quite of his own will to rise above his name, and so he had done and continues to do until this day.

They tell him that he can't be Quidditch Captain  _and_  Head Boy, so he turns down the latter to the horror of his parents and cousins. Only James and Lily say nothing about the matter; they have seen the plays he drafts and the way he sneaks out at night sometimes to fly for the simple joy of it.

Although he graduates with N.E.W.T.s to follow his father's accomplished footsteps, he chooses his mother's path instead. He loves the thrill of blood pumping through his veins, the wind in his hair, the feeling of his heart thudding against his chest as he speeds through brooms and people and cold, starry air.

"It's hereditary, this love of Quidditch," his Uncle Ron teases, ruffling his hair.

Albus grins and eats his apple pie but says nothing. He glances across the table at James, with the quiet, settled life itching under his skin; at Lily, who is two drinks in and ploughing on. They all love Quidditch, it is true, but what is hereditary is the addiction they all experience to the delight of adrenaline and fervour and stars exploding in eyes and against skin.

Fire and brimstone.

The Potter legacy.

* * *

He looks more like his father than his mother, with his dark hair and green eyes and skinny frame, but it is his mother's reputation that precedes him in the Quidditch world. "Ginny Weasley's son?" Helen says, peering at him keenly. "It'll do you no favours."

"She's a wonderful mother," Albus says quietly. "But other than that, it never has."

But they let him onto the team in the end, of course, because he flies better than even his mother had; more sunlight and wind than human when airborne, and he always catches the Snitch.

His Aunt Audrey is Muggle-born like Hermione, but much more interested in the sport. Sometimes, he brings her his plays and she asks him about this rule or that. As they talk, she sketches some numbers and lines on paper; what Albus recognises from his childhood as  _science_. "Can you teach me some?" he asks, seeing immediately how the calculations of speed and angles can assist in his flights.

Audrey looks somewhat amused by his curiosity but only says, "Of course."

* * *

He flies at night, or draws his plays, or reads until his eyes burn, but he is determined that he should fly better each day, and he does.

It is a long way, he thinks, from the small boy he was on his fifth night in Hogwarts, after his first flying lesson, who had drawn a Snitch in the fog on the window with an index finger, against a starry night sky.

* * *

"You're not eating enough," Ginny says to him firmly, piling more pasta onto his plate despite his protests. "Is it the cooking? Are you having trouble with it?"

Lily is still up in her room and James, despite the situation, is smirking at him. "I am not having trouble with cooking," Albus says patiently. "I'm perfectly able to cook."

"Are you?" Ginny asks, and pinches his cheek in a way that is entirely demonstrative and not at all fond. "Look at you. Skinnier than the bone of a chicken leg."

"Oh, surely not," James says in a mocking tone of voice. "Surely not  _that_  skinny."

"James Sirius," Ginny says warningly and Harry refills everyone's water glasses.  _James Sirius_ , Albus mouths behind his mother's back at his brother, who makes an unmistakeably rude hand gesture in return.

Harry, having given up on curbing his sons' childish antics long ago, only says, "You do look thinner, Al. You haven't been ill, have you?"

"No, sir," Albus says promptly and turns his head so that his father can see the honesty in his face even as his brother sniggers at the words.

* * *

" _Judas_ ," Matthew exclaims when he sees Albus. "You look like a strong breeze could blow you away." Albus shifts uncomfortably on the doorstep as the other man stares at him. "Come in, come in," Matthew ushers. "Before any wind does happen to come along."

Inside, Roxanne is at the kitchen counter, mixing something in a bowl and bobbing her head along to the radio. "Drink?" Matthew asks, moving to the fridge. "There's juice or water or we have wine if you'd prefer?"

"Just water," Albus says with a smile. "Thank you."

Roxie looks up at the sound of her cousin's voice, sees him and blinks, then purses her lips. "I see. Vic's not exaggerating."

"Oh," Albus says with a laugh, "it's not so bad-"

"You look terrible," Roxanne says bluntly. "Have a seat so I don't have to worry about you keeling over, and you're not leaving this house tonight until you've had two portions of everything I serve."

* * *

"My family are alarmists," Albus says to Scorpius. "All of them – you'd think they'd be used to a bit of stress by now."

Scorpius looks keenly at his friend. "Is it stress? You don't seem particularly stressed to me."

They had met in their first year at Hogwarts, Scorpius and Albus, and had been inseparable ever since. Scorpius had not had a pleasant first few years at school; a Gryffindor Malfoy with a good heart, a knack for defensive spells and a long list of grievances held against him that belonged primarily to his father.

But it had never mattered to Albus who Scorpius' parents were; indeed, every holiday when Astoria Malfoy came to the station dressed in defiantly Muggle clothes to collect her son, she seemed as loving and quirky and attentive as Ginny Weasley had ever been, and Albus had (and still does) gotten along with her famously.

Scorpius had scars, Albus had seen that. They have whitened and cleared over time; some of them have even faded entirely. But some of them will stay forever, because Scorpius will never be rid of the Malfoy name or its history. "Is it wrong to wish I didn't have it?" Scorpius had asked Albus one long night when the fires of Hogwarts burned low. "The Malfoy name?"

Albus twisted his quilt between his fingers and stared at the bedpost. His parents were wonderful and proud and fierce and gentle and kind and nurturing and they had never asked for anything from him, but they didn't have to. The world shone a spotlight on the Potter name and demanded its bearers to perform. Scorpius had scars that had been inflicted unwillingly and possibly unknowingly, by his own parents. Albus knew what that felt like. "No," he had said finally, and to this day, they share something that even Rose cannot understand.

Scorpius has always read him like a book, and does so now, with a tilted head. "So if it isn't stress, then what is it?"

"It's nothing," Albus shrugs, then repeats, "It's  _nothing_ ," as Scorpius lifts a dubious eyebrow at him. "I just…love it, that's all. I work hard at it."

Scorpius knows how Albus hates fuss, so he only says, "Be careful." And Albus promises, and they do not talk of it for the rest of the day.

* * *

He spiral dives towards the pitch field and the grass looms closer. And he pulls at the broom handle, but his fingers have a strange weakness in them. Dimly, he remembers that he hasn't eaten anything that day because he had slept a little late and rushed to get to practice.

This, upon reflection, had been a poor choice. A murky darkness edges his vision. Several voices are shouting in the background; he hears his name being called but his eyelids are growing strangely heavy.

There is a detached voice in his head telling him that this is going to hurt quite a lot, but in fact, the darkness eats through his vision before the broom hits the ground, and he doesn't feel a thing.

* * *

He wakes up in St. Mungo's and his cousins cry and his mother swears he is never to get on a broom again and Scorpius gives him a strange, discerning look and says, "That wasn't being careful."

* * *

Albus is subsequently sent to a Healer who specialises in what Muggles call  _psychology_. He is a pleasant man, only a little older than Albus himself. They have a twice-weekly appointment schedule while Albus is recuperating at home.

"Is it helping?" Teddy asks curiously. Albus shrugs. The Healer – whose name, Archer, has caught Albus' attention (even now, in the age of wacky and weird, there aren't too many people who are named for stars) – is quiet and thoughtful and he, too, has turned down greater career prospects to do something he is passionate about. He asks insightful questions but Albus has never been good at talking about himself.

"I don't know if it's really for me," he tells his godbrother. "He asks very personal questions."

They are taking a walk through the park and Teddy laughs as he clutches his coffee. "Al, that's kind of his job." Albus wraps his hands around his own paper cup, the warmth seeping into his fingers, and says nothing. "You look better," Teddy says to him as they round a bend and the lake appears in the distance. "How do you feel?"

_Itchy_ , Albus wants to say. Like his skin is too tight and his blood is too hot underneath, bubbling under the surface under the extremities. "Different," he settles with, because he doesn't want to alarm Teddy. "It's weird not flying."

Teddy's face is sympathetic and warm. "It's only for a little while, isn't it?"

Albus snorts. "Not according to mum."

Teddy laughs. "Of course. And far be it from you to defy your mother."

Albus brings the coffee cup into his chest, cradling it close so that the warms permeates the wool of his jumper and spreads across his torso. There is a lot that he would give up for his mother, but flying isn't one of them.

* * *

"Who's your best friend?" Archer the star-named Healer asks him and Albus opens his eyes.

The ceiling is a comforting dark rose colour and Albus has started lying down on the sofa, shoes off, as a sort of passive mockery of the situation. "Scorpius Malfoy. And my family. Although he sort of is family at this point."

"I meant outside of your family."

"I assumed you did."

Albus hears the rustle of paper and then Archer says in an inoffensive tone, "Can you tell me why it's such a problem for you to be here?"

Albus, startled, says, "What?" But Archer only waits, so Albus tells him, "I don't see why I should have to. My problem was purely physical. That's what I was in hospital for. I don't really have problems that can be fixed by talking."

Archer sounds genuinely curious as he asks – "Do you really think that your problem is purely physical?"

"Yes," Albus says, and his fingertips and ears tingle with the itch under his skin, and the lie on his lips.

* * *

He can't talk to Archer, because he hates sounding inarticulate in front of strangers, and he can't go to Victoire because she will freak out beyond imagining, so he calls Parker one mind-numbingly empty afternoon. "Are you working?"

"Nope." Parker's voice is relaxed. "Off today. What's up?"

"Want to come over?"

Albus makes cake – vanilla with icing – and puts it in the oven before Parker arrives. He boils water the Muggle way, in a kettle, and makes tea. His cousin's boyfriend arrives with a  _pop_  in the little alcove next to the fireplace, landing neatly on the cushy rug.

They trade information about the family and Parker laughs a lot, draped over one of Albus' armchairs like a strewn coat. "Is something the matter?" he asks, just as the cake is done, and Albus goes to cut them slices.

"I know that you specialise in curses," Albus says quietly, "but I wanted to ask you something else." He tells Parker about his fall, and then about the listlessness in his limbs since, and finally, about the Healer who keeps asking him questions about himself.

Parker frowns. "Archer Clarke?" Albus nods. "He's very good at his job."

"Is he?" Albus asks, lifting an eyebrow. "All he does is ask me bloody questions."

"But is he asking you the right ones," Parker says, although the small smile that plays at his lips shows his understanding of the Potter-Weasley reticence.

Albus considers this for a fair amount of time. Then, "I don't feel any better. Isn't that the whole point of the thing?"

Parker grins at him, and stabs another bite of cake with his fork. "Sometimes, things have to get worse before they get better." He smiles without any venom, his tone teasing. "We're not all blessed with your talents in life."

* * *

Albus comes to his next appointment with the remainder of the cake and Archer lifts an eyebrow at it. "I'm not very good at talking about myself."

Archer's lips quirk a little. "I've noticed."

Albus stuffs his other hand into his pocket. "Anyway, I apologise that I've been difficult."

Archer considers him for a moment before putting his pen and pad into his lap and accepting the box with both hands. "Dealing with difficult patients is my job. The cake is very unnecessary." He sniffs the contents. "Oh, vanilla's my favourite."

Albus sheds his coat and smiles. "There are some things I'd like to talk about." Suddenly, he feels uncomfortable, but he pushes that down and clears his throat. "Ever since the accident, I've had these…weird feelings." Archer folds his hands and waits. "Like my skin doesn't fit me properly anymore." Albus rubs his hands together. "My hands and legs get this…"

He pauses, struggling to find a word that doesn't sound absolutely insane, and Archer surprises him with, "prickly?"

"Yeah." Albus stares. "How did you know that?"

Archer gives him a smile. "Why do you think it's happening?"

Albus frowns at him without ire. "It only started to happen after the accident," he says finally. "I haven't been flying."

Archer's voice is soft like velvet. "Do you miss it?"

Albus clenches his hands together, interlacing his fingers tightly so that the joints turn white. "Yes."

"Much?"

"Yes."

* * *

Albus can track his own physical progress based on the proportional downward slope of James' civility. At last, one day, when James flings himself down on Albus' couch with no words but, "You look like shit," Albus knows that he is looking healthy again.

"Pot-kettle, brother," Albus says lightly. "And what can I do for you today?"

James considers this question with a furrowed expression. "How's therapy?"

"Not too bad," Albus replies. "Got off to a bit of a rocky start, but it's starting to level out a bit."

"Don't you feel like you never get any answers?" James asks. "They're always just asking and asking and asking."

Albus shrugs. "That's what I thought at first too – but I think maybe there are answers that we just have to find ourselves."

James rolls his eyes. "If you say so." He kicks his feet over the side of the couch and braces an arm under his head as he looks up at the ceiling. "I saw Delia the other day." Albus looks up from his book and lifts an eyebrow.

"How was it?"

Of all the cousins in the Potter-Weasley bunch, James is the only one whose marriage has not been a success, and he knows that his brother often sees it as his own failing. "Things fall apart," Albus told him one night as James had stumbled drunkenly out of the pub in front of him. "It isn't your fault."  _You can't hold everything together_.

And things had fallen apart, so thoroughly that everything lay in pieces around their feet and the wild look in James' eyes for a while had shown how he had no idea how to pull them back together. But they are a mosaic type of family; a puzzle with edges that don't quite match, and they have always made room for each other anyway. And this is what James does with his life, day after day, picks at the pieces until the edges fit together again, and Albus would never say so, but it makes him admire his brother even more than before.

"It was alright," James says now. "It was nice. Delia seemed happy." Albus lowers his eyes to his book again but doesn't read any of the words, and waits for his brother to speak again. "I have this theory."

"Yes?" Albus says when James pauses.

James draws in a long breath. "I think maybe dad never left the war behind."

Albus frowns. "What do you mean?" He closes his book gently and places it on the coffee table. "Dad seems perfectly fine."

"I know he seems fine," James says. "And I think he  _is_  fine."

"How can he be fine if he still carries the war around with him?"

James closes his eyes. "Maybe he gave it to us."

* * *

"My brother has an idea," Albus tells Archer, who leans forward and nods for him to go on. "He thinks that my father's burdens have become ours now."

"Your father, Harry Potter," Archer says quietly. It is the first time he has ever acknowledged anyone in Albus' family by name and it is a slight surprise. "Those are heavy burdens."

"My father was a soldier. That doesn't go away overnight. It was bound to leak into our house."

Archer folds his hands together and says, "Your father had a war to fight and you have none."

Albus rubs a hand over his eyes. He has been thinking about James' words all night; he can feel the lack of sleep pressing at the back of his skull. "But we still fight so hard. My brother tried so hard to settle into a normal life. My sister went in the complete opposite direction, but she's fighting something too."

"And you wanted to be different," Archer says. So it isn't true, Albus thinks, that they only ask questions, for now here is an answer that has been with him all his life. "You wanted to be better."

"I wanted to be someone else," Albus says. "Someone who wasn't weighed down by the Potter name. So I put all my energy into Quidditch. It's true my mother was a good player, but in my mind, Quidditch belonged entirely to me." He goes to say something else, but there is an expression in Archer's face that shows Albus he understands.

"Nothing belongs entirely to you," Archer says. "Except for you."

Albus laughs. "That's profound."

Archer grins too. "It's my job to be profound."

Albus crosses his legs. "It is your job. So tell me. What comes now?"

Archer looks at him for a long moment with discerning dark eyes. "You said you wanted to be free of the Potter name, but that will never happen. You're a Potter, and you always will be." Archer unclasps his hands and takes up his book of notes again as he speaks, and Albus listens. "But you're Albus Potter. You need to figure out what that means. Eventually, it has to mean something different from Harry."

* * *

"You look better," Dom observes as soon as she sees him. "Loads and loads better."

Albus folds his coat neatly on the barstool next to him and smiles. "Thanks."

Dom makes him tea, and Hikaru his three-sugar-coffee and then props herself on the bar before the two of them. "Do you feel better?"

Albus rests his hands on either sides of the mug. "In a way."

Dom leans forward so that her eyes are level with his. "Don't speak in riddles to me, Albus."

He grins into his mug. "Sorry." She lifts a fine eyebrow at them both and gives him an expectant nod. He clears his throat. "I feel better, but I miss flying. And I'm worried about going back, because I want to but I don't think I know how to do it differently from how I was doing it before."

Dom nods slowly. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" Albus rolls his eyes and Hikaru laughs. "Why can't you just do it the same but…less?"

Albus runs a hand over the worn bar top and sighs. "I don't know if less is really something that I do."

* * *

Helen meets Albus at the changing room door. "Is your mother going to sit there for the whole practice?"

Albus sighs. It is his first day back, and he has promised his mother supervision rights whenever she wants them. So there sits Ginny Weasley, long red hair tied up, eating salad out of a Tupperware container and looking for all the world like the coolest overly-concerned parent on earth. "Probably, yeah."

Helen looks from him to Ginny, then back. "We're not going to let you spiral out of control again, you know."

Albus adjusts his glove. "I know."

Helen rolls up her sleeve. "Maybe you should tell your mother that."

They climb onto their brooms and Albus laughs. "Maybe  _you_  should tell my mother that. Because I'm pretty sure she's not going to believe anything I say."

* * *

Flying is like being at home again; like his skin fits and his blood sings again. The familiar feeling of stars in his eyes returns and he loses himself in it all too easily.

That night, Ginny makes him a full meal, and they eat together at his dining room table in comfortable silence.  _I love you very much, Al_ , she tells him before she goes and he kisses her cheek.

In bed, the tightness and prickle in his fingertips returns, but by now, it is a familiar feeling, and only confirms Albus' suspicions that it is not Quidditch itself that he has missed.

And he sits up in bed and decides that he does not want his life to be  _this_  anymore, whatever  _this_  is. Albus Potter is in there somewhere; the Albus Potter who wanted to play Quidditch and count stars and read books and eat Every Flavour Beans. Albus Potter is not someone who is never satisfied with what he has, and is kept awake by a fucking  _prickling_  in his  _fingertips_.

"Well," he says aloud to the dark room around him. "That's enough now."

* * *

Harry's office is bigger than all the others on his floor, and on he, Ginny and their children have the password. Albus lets himself in without knocking, helps himself to tea from the sideboard and opens the fridge. "Oh, fudge," he says, helping himself to some delightedly.

"Can I help you?" Harry asks with a laugh. "Or are you just here to take away all my food?"

Albus brings his father a square as well and sits down on the chair opposite him. "Is this mum's fudge?"

"Molly's," Harry responds.

"Even better," Albus says with a grin. "I've got an appointment this afternoon nearby, so I thought I'd just drop in for a chat."

Harry looks over his glasses at his son. "An appointment with your therapist?"

Albus swallows his mouthful, detecting a note of something or other in Harry's voice. "Yes," he replies. "With my therapist. It's my last appointment."

Harry signs the page in front of him before setting it aside. "Do you want to talk about your therapy?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, good."

Albus laughs at that, and takes a large mouthful of tea. "I'm kind of thinking about work, actually." The relief on Harry's face is evident; work is a safe topic. "Obviously, you had mum, and me and James and Lil, and we all had lives to talk about, so your home life was very separate from work." He takes another bite of fudge. "But I can't seem to leave it behind when I go home." He licks some icing off his finger. "Got any advice for that?"

Harry shrugs. "My job is to fight Dark wizards. I've been doing it since I was eleven, and couldn't stop when Voldemort was dead – so I'm not really the best person to give advice on leaving work at the door."

Albus crams the last of the fudge into his mouth and wipes his fingers.  _Good talk_ , he wants to say, but that seems a little disrespectful. Talking to Harry has always come naturally for James and Lily, but although he loves his father with all of his heart, Albus has always found it difficult. Rose calls it  _middle child syndrome_. Dom calls it emotional constipation.

Harry leans back in his chair and surveys his son. "I can't give you any advice," he says. "I have failings that I wouldn't ever wish on you."  _Too late for that_ , Albus wants to say, but once again keeps his mouth shut. "But I do realise that I may have passed some down to you unwittingly – such is parenthood." Harry breaks some of his own fudge off and rolls it between his fingers, watching his own hands intently. "Your mother and I realise that being part of our family isn't always easy. But we do want you to be better than us, and we've always tried to teach you accordingly."

"We aren't better than you," Albus says with a lump in his throat.

Harry continues. "There's a balance somewhere between the family, and yourself. It's not something that I think I've ever managed." Finally, he looks up and Albus sees something sad in his face. "But I hope you do."

* * *

Archer likes the idea of finding a balance, and smiles when Albus recounts his father's words. "What a clever man," Archer says. "Maybe he's in the wrong line of work."

Albus bursts out laughing at that. "You have no idea how terrible my dad would be at your job."

"So how do you propose to find this balance?" Archer asks.

"I have no idea," Albus admits. "I'm not even sure I know what it means."

Archer considers this carefully. "Well," he begins. "There's always good and bad in everything, isn't there?" Albus nods – this is a lesson that his father had taught him a long time ago. "And you have your own bad aspects - which is perfectly normal - and the bad aspects of bearing your family name on top of that. It's a lot. So maybe you should try to find a way to get rid of some of the bad parts."

"Get rid of some of the bad parts," Albus repeats quietly. That sounds like an ideal situation. "But how?"

There is a spark in Archer's eye. "Oh, let's make a plan. I'm all about plans."

And they do. Archer even pulls out coloured markers for Albus ("because now we're getting serious," he says while makes Albus laugh again).

They decide that Albus should have meals with his family at least twice a week, and set himself a bedtime ("write that one up the top," Archer chuckles, "and show it to your brother.") and that he shouldn't talk too much about Quidditch off the pitch. "Meet some more people," Archer suggests. "Someone who isn't family, and who isn't your Quidditch team. It would be good to have people to talk to outside of those two realms. Find another hobby as well," Archer recommends, scrawling it down in the corner of the page.

"A hobby?" Albus asks blankly. "What hobby?"

"I don't know," Archer says pointedly. "That's why I said  _find_ one."

"I feel like I'm planning a military campaign," Albus tells him, capping a blue marker.

"That's one way to look at life," Archer agrees.

At the end of his session, Albus is left with several pages of notes and coloured scribbling, and it is more of a mind map than a management plan. "Thanks," he says, holding it in his hand. "So. This is the end."

"It's the beginning for you, I should think," Archer says, and stands. "But it's been my pleasure. I've enjoyed our time together. Your life outside this room sounds very interesting." He hesitates before saying with a grin, "That's not always the case with patients."

"Well, I've enjoyed it too," Albus says honestly. "Which isn't always the case with Healers." Albus slings his bag over his shoulder. "Honestly, I've never talked this much to anyone outside my family."

"Well," Archer says with a nod. "I'm glad I could be of help."

They shake hands. "You've done more than that," Albus says, and then suddenly realises that he is reluctant to go before he asks a question that has been on his mind for a while. He spends a moment deliberating his next words, then says, "May I call you a friend?"

Archer's eyebrows lift at his question, but then he smiles warmly. "It would be an honour." Then, he adds, "But I suppose we'd better have another introduction, hadn't we?"

Albus shifts so that his papers are in his left hand and sticks out his right again to shake. "Albus Severus Potter. I go by Al."

Archer takes his hand in a firm grip. "Archer Clarke." He grins at Albus, who in that moment sees an entire new friendship stretch out before him in an exciting rush. "My friends call me Archie."

* * *

That night, he goes to his parents' house for dinner, and James and Lily bicker over who should get the bigger serving of pie, and Harry gives them a pointlessly quelling look, and Ginny rolls her eyes and serves the food. Albus rests his chin on his propped hands and closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of his family, and smiles.

"What are you looking so pleased about?" James asks him, flicking a pea at him when Ginny isn't looking.

Albus opens his eyes and rubs his hands together. The prickling in his fingers isn't so bothersome anymore. He tells them, "I made a friend today."

* * *

Archie comes to his Quidditch game, and naturally, they win. Afterwards, the Potter-Weasleys have one of their informal parties at the Burrow, and Albus waves his teammates goodbye and invites Archie to come with them.

"My friend, Archie," Albus says to Scorpius, who looks surprised but shakes his hand and strikes up a conversation with him about architecture, of all things, and within minutes, they are laughing together.

Albus goes over to get himself a plate and Hugo spoons him some salad. "Nice flying today, Al."

"Thanks," Albus says. "How goes the writing?"

"It goes well," Hugo tells him. "It'll be done soon."

Albus grins at his cousin. "So what's my character like?"

Hugo rolls his eyes at him fondly. "Really quite insane," he says. "But he's the best of them too."

Albus' cheeks flush at the praise and he opens his mouth to say something, but just as he does, Scorpius comes up behind him and hits him on the arm. "You never told me that you had another friend named after astronomy!"

Albus winces and rubs his arm. "Ow," he says sarcastically. "Is Rose teaching you to punch like that?"

"I'm an Auror, Albus," Scorpius says as Archie grins. "I punch people on the daily."

Hugo snorts. "We should use that as the new slogan for the Auror Department.  _We punch people on the daily_."

"And what would the slogan of the writers be?" Albus asks. " _We don't brush our hair_?"

"Scorpius, punch him again."

Scorpius, laughing, says, "And what about Quidditch players?" He nudges Albus teasingly. " _We fall off our brooms_."

"My affection for you is an ongoing mystery," Albus returns, and Archie laughs as well.

Hugo wags a finger at Scorpius. "You're not allowed to talk to Albus about his work, remember? That's the new rule. Especially in front of his ex-therapist," he says, smiling at Archie to show that he is joking.

Scorpius hastens to make an over-enthusiastic apology, and he and Hugo then go on discussing the slogans of various professions, each more ridiculous than the last. Albus turns to Archie to make sure that he is alright (his family all together can be quite overwhelming at first) and finds him beaming. "So," Archie says in a quieter tone. "I see you figured out how to get rid of the bad parts."

"Mmm," Albus agrees with a smile, and looks around at his family. "Yeah, I did." James has Lily in a headlock and is ruffling her hair; Scorpius and Hugo have been joined by Rose and they are all laughing in the afternoon sunlight. Albus smiles. "I'll keep the good, though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please review. :)


	13. The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, so. Here we are. Within this chapter you will find the original promised scene of Hugo eating scones and drinking tea. You will also find an ending of sorts. Enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: We all know to whom these characters belong. A salute to her.

_Hugo_

Hugo Weasley has always had more than his share in the world. He has a good education, and more than enough money to buy nice clothes, nice books, nice things. He has loving friends and attentive teachers and enough time to do what he loves. And all of these things are important.

But most importantly of all, Hugo Weasley has a pen. And he has a family.

* * *

Albus shows up at his door with a basket of scones (tied with a ribbon so neat that it can only be Grandma Molly's handiwork) and a box of Hugo's favourite tea leaves. "Brunch?" he asks, and Hugo grins at his cousin.

"I don't know if this constitutes brunch," he says. "More like high tea."

"We're a classy bunch," Albus says, stepping inside. Hugo relieves him of the tea. "Shall I take these to the kitchen?"

Hugo gestures to the French doors with his free hand. "Let's eat in the garden." His garden is lovely; he tends to it when he has writer's block. The Sun is slanting across, painting a bright stripe across the grass. Hugo collects two mugs and fills a teapot with leaves and water before following his cousin outside. "You look good," he tells Albus.

"I feel better," Albus says. "I've been feeling better for a while now."

Hugo pours him a cup of tea. "Are you happy?"

Albus wraps his hands around the cup and looks out over the grass. "Yeah."

"You look it," Hugo says honestly, and Albus smiles.

"So do you." Then, after a long moment of contemplative silence, Albus speaks again. "Holy shit," he says slowly. "Are we grown-ups?"

And Hugo laughs.

* * *

The copies of his book fly off the shelves. On the first day, Roxanne lines up outside the bookstore for an hour where Hugo is signing and buys twelve copies for the family. "Rox, for Merlin's sake, I was going to bring some to you lot," Hugo says, exasperated.

Roxie bundles the copies into her bag. "I know that, but I wanted to  _buy_  them." She glances around. The bookshop is packed full. "Just like everyone else."

Hugo shakes his head, but gives her a swift kiss on the cheek.

His editor is a young Chinese woman named Kelly, who has intelligent almond eyes and wears her shining dark hair up in a knot. Early in the editing process, he had felt the need to explain to her where the inspiration for the story had come from. Kelly had frowned at him as he spoke. "I know," he tells her, "that you probably already know anyway, but I just thought I should-"

"What do you mean?" she asks, looking from Hugo to the pages in front of her. "It's based on your family?"

Hugo stares at her. "Uh. Yes?"

Kelly tilts her head, then flips through some of the pages. "Oh."

In the first chapter, Hugo details a divorce that he had assumed would be an obvious link to James. But Kelly is looking through the manuscript again, a thoughtful look on her face, and Hugo says slowly, "Isn't it obvious?"

Kelly looks up at him, a surprised look on her face. "Not at all," she says. "In fact, I was thinking some of them seem somewhat like my own family."

Hugo's mouth falls open a little. For the first time in his life, it occurs to him, like a bolt of lightning striking, that perhaps his family is, in some senses of the word,  _normal_.

* * *

Hugo sits in the bar, waiting for Dom and Will and Bridgitte to be done with work, and there is a woman sitting on the stool next to him, attempting to get his attention. Hugo has never been talented with women; growing up with Louis and James and Teddy (who most definitely  _are_ ) has made him rather impervious to their inattention.

She is dark-haired and dark-eyed and wearing an off-the-shoulder red dress that is both attractive and bares far too much skin for the October weather. She has struck up three conversations with him since he sat down fifteen minutes ago, and Dom, across the bar, has given him several meaningful glances.

"What did you say your name was?" he asks her, and she gives him a smile.

"I didn't."

Hugo's eyebrows lift slightly at that. "Well, I'm Hugo."

She puts out a slim tanned hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Hugo."

He grips her hand for a moment longer than he should, and frowns. "Do I get to hear your name, then?"

"Nope," she says, seeming quite unconcerned. "At least, not yet." At his quizzical expression, she laughs, and says, "Not until I have another drink in me." Dom obliges immediately, handing one to Hugo as well, unasked. He drinks a mouthful and makes a face at the taste.

She laughs. "Not good?"

He shrugs. "I'm sure it is; but I'm not much one for drinking."

She frowns and crosses her right left over her left, swinging so that their knees are almost touching. "Then why are you in a bar?"

Hugo can almost feel a host of his cousins telling him  _not_  to say the next line, but he speaks anyway, nodding across the bar. "She's my cousin."

The young woman's eyebrows rise. "Your cousin works in a bar? That's pretty cool."

Hugo laughs and takes another drink, despite the taste, and wonders whether this is what flirting is like for people who actually know how to do it. "Yeah, my family's pretty cool."

Scratch that, Hugo amends. People who actually know how to flirt know not to begin conversation by discussing family. But she seems to roll with it, and asks him several questions about his family, before seamlessly transitioning to her own life, and before he knows it, half an hour has gone by and his glass is empty.

Dom had vanished into the back room a long time ago, so Hugo slides underneath the bar to pour the young woman another drink. "Same again?" he asks, searching through the bottles.

She leans across the bar on her elbows and as he straightens up, he feels her breath on his face. "How about we drink something you actually like?"

Hugo chuckles. "It might be difficult to find. I'm a bit picky."

She accepts the short round glass with a grin. "Alright. So if it's not alcohol, then what's your poison?"

He laughs as he considers the answer. "Writing."

"How on earth is that a poison?"

"Well, it's a substitute for something a lot more dangerous."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Hugo says, and, because it's something he's seen in movies, takes a drink from the bottle itself (and regrets it immediately). "Myself."

She levels him with a look. "Yourself?"

Hugo gives her a half-smile. "Trust me, if I didn't write, I'd take myself down. It's way more common than you think."

She reaches across the bar and steals the bottle from his hand, copying his action and drinking straight from the bottle. "Know lots of people who've taken themselves down, do you?"

Hugo takes a mental roll of his family. "A few, yes." He swirls his glass. "I'd rather not go down that road."

She shrugs, her hair sliding over her shoulder in the low light. "Doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world."

Hugo thinks of Lily, her sharp tongue and the red rings around her eyes before Harry had brought her home; of Rose and her inability to see herself in the mirror; of Louis and his music-entrenched one-sided love affair; of Teddy, of James, of Albus. "Depends on who you are." He gives a small smile to the inside of his glass. "And how capable you are of pulling yourself back out."

* * *

"So what are you working on now?" Albus asks him, taking a large bite out of a scone.

Hugo smiles down at his plate. "Crime fiction."

Albus blinks. "Crime fiction?" he repeats. "Really? I didn't know you liked crime fiction."

Hugo smears some jam across his scone and nods. "Always have."

"So since I know an inside man," Albus says, taking the jam from Hugo's hand, "can I have a sneak peek?"

Hugo laughs. "Not much of it is written," he admits. "It's still cooking up in here." He taps his temple. "But it's about a family of detectives, and how they solve a politician's murder."

Albus grins. "Sounds more like a comedy to me." Hugo pours more tea from them both and looks out over the garden. The roses are in full bloom, and Roxanne and Louis have both been consulted on how to keep them alive. (Hugo has killed far too many plants for his cousins to allow him to maintain his own garden.) "Still writing about families, though?"

Hugo nods thoughtfully. "Kelly asked me the same thing," he told his cousin. "I think everything I write will be about families, in one way or another."

Albus chuckles. "Just can't get away from us, can you?"

Hugo thinks about what Kelly once asked him, about whether he has ever truly done anything separately from his family. In one way or another, they have all been trying to get away from their family at some point in their lives. But now, Hugo has come full circle. He thinks that maybe, they all have.

They have battled life and come through victors. They have written their own histories. And now at the end, broken down and bleeding, his family is still the strongest and most bizarrely compelling thing Hugo has ever seen.

"No," he says in response to Albus' question. "And I don't think I'd want to."

* * *

He runs into her at the bar again, and says, "I think it's about time I knew your name."

She is drinking gin and tonic, and is dressed far more weather-appropriately, in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, and she smiles wryly at him. "I'm Frances. Go by Franny."

"Franny," he says slowly, testing out the name. It is green and flowery and sweet-scented, and he thinks maybe it fits her but he isn't sure. "Nice to meet you."

She offers him some of her gin and tonic, and he declines. "So," she says, "I bought your book." Hugo looks across, surprised. "Oh, I remembered that Dom's your cousin," Franny tells him. "And I assumed you had the same last name, so I went and looked you up." She grins at him. "You're big news."

Hugo gives her a startled look and slides onto the barstool next to her. "I'm big news?"

Franny runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Two different employees in the book shop recommended it to me, even though I was clearly intending to buy it anyway." Hugo tries not to look flattered. "You do write beautifully, you know."

"Thank you."

Franny laughs. "It's a nice story."

There is something about the way she says it that makes Hugo look sharply at her. "You don't like it."

She blinks several times, which makes Hugo wonder how many drinks she has had. "I  _do_  like it," she replies. "But it's just not…"

"Not what?" Hugo presses.

She gives him an apologetic look. "It's not very real, is it?"

It is Hugo's turn to blink. Lots of things have been said, and written, about his book, but that is not one of them. "What?"

Franny laughs, a clear, rippling sound. "Don't sound so shocked; it's ok," she grins at him. "They're books, they're not supposed to be real."

"It is real," is all Hugo can say, and he thinks of his cousins. Dom is right there on the other side of the bar, very obviously not listening to their conversation.

"Is it?" Franny says with a wry smile. "Whose family is really like that? Love and life and dreams and reconciliation. All that happiness," she shakes her head and takes another drink. "That's fairytale stuff. Family's full of psychos."

Hugo acknowledges this with a tilt of his head. "But that can be good."

Franny scoffs lightly, and Hugo looks at her curiously. There is some kind of darkness lingering in the sound, and in Franny as well, that he has seen before somewhere he cannot place. "Sure, anything can be good," she says. "But it can be bad too."

* * *

"I met a girl," Hugo tells Albus, who raises his eyebrows with a sparkle in his eye.

"Oh,  _really_ ," he says, because even though they are self-proclaimed grown-ups, Albus is still his cousin and that comes with certain territory.

"Not like that," Hugo says with an eye-roll, and throws a crumb of scone across the table. "I was in Dom's bar-"

"Are you  _sure_  it's not like that?"

"Would you listen to me?" Hugo demands. "Franny – that's her name, by the way – read my book."

"Witch or muggle?" Albus asks, licking jam off the knife and reaching for the teapot.

"Muggle," Hugo says. "She said that my book wasn't realistic."

Albus considers this. "Well, it's not the worst thing she could have said."

Hugo waves his hand. "I don't care about that. It's not the criticism, it's what she said after." Albus put his cup down and waits. "She said that a happy family was a fairytale."

Albus looks carefully at his cousin. "And that bothers you."

Hugo sighs and scrapes his knife along his floral plate. Albus winces at the noise. "Yeah, it does." The Potters and Weasleys have never been the most settled, calm family, but they have always been there, through thick and thin. "Remember when you were in seventh year and Rose and Scorpius started to get serious?" Albus nods and Hugo adjusts his watch and stares into the distance.

Hugo had never known Scorpius well, but the older boy had seen how fiercely Rose loved her family, and had made every effort to get to know all the Weasleys and Potters, especially Hugo. Once, during a holiday when Rose, Albus and Scorpius had been studying in a library in London, Hugo had been working in the joke shop and the three of them dropped by to see Ron. Albus and Rose had disappeared into the back room but Scorpius leant up against the counter and chatted to Hugo while the shop was empty. "They're lucky, you know," the blond boy had said. "You're lucky."

"I know," Hugo said, because he did know, although he wasn't sure to what exactly Scorpius had been referring.

"A dad like yours – not everybody has that."

Hugo had frowned. "But your dad-"

"I love my dad," Scorpius had said. "But my father's relationship with  _his_  father was a very different story." He shrugged. "They had a difficult relationship. Still do. My father learnt from those mistakes; he and mum raised me differently, but I still see something of it in him sometimes."

Hugo had still been frowning. "See what?"

Scorpius had looked distantly at him, as if seeing him, but at the same time, not. "You've always had a happy, loving family. I'm not sure you'd understand it." He had grinned easily at Hugo. "I hope you never do."

Now, Albus looks expectantly at Hugo, who tells him, "Scorpius told me about his family. How it hadn't always been a happy one." He sighs and shakes his head, not entirely sure what he is trying to say. "Franny kind of reminds me of that."

* * *

He meets Franny at the bar five times before he decides that he has absolutely no romantic interest in her, and when he announces this, it seems she has come to the same conclusion several meetings ago. "Friends, though, eh?" she asks with a tired smile.

Hugo surveys her. She is not drinking alcohol, but she seems a little worn down. "Why are you always here?" He leans against the bar. "My cousin works at this bar. What's your reason for being here so often?"

She grins. "That's not a five-meeting question. But since you mention it, I've had enough of this bar. Shall we go someplace else?"

They do, to a café just down the street, and have coffee. Hugo has a scone as well. They talk about books, they talk about school, they talk about Hugo's newest work. Hugo volunteers some information about his sister, his parents, his cousins. Franny leaves him her number. "Nice chatting. Let's do it again soon."

Rose hears of Franny from Albus who hears it from James from Fred from Louis from Victoire from Dominique. "You're seeing her an awful lot, aren't you?"

Hugo shrugs. "You see Zoe quite a lot."

"I see Zoe once a month," Rose corrects. "You see this Franny woman several times a week, if reports are correct."

"Reports are correct," Hugo says. The day before, they had gone to the museum; on Monday, they had dinner in an Italian restaurant near the bar. "Is it odd? We're friends."

Rose gives him a knowing look. "Are you sure that's all she has in mind?"

Hugo laughs. Rose has always been suspicious of people's intentions – both good and bad. "You know, I have a feeling that Franny's a little bit like Zoe." At Rose's questioning expression, he continues, "She gets the man she has in mind."

And since Hugo is not the man Franny has in mind, they continue on their course of friendship. She meets Albus and Scorpius one afternoon when they run into each other at the bar. She and Scorpius get along marvellously, as it often is with Scorpius. She likes Albus too, but he comes away from her frowning. "What you said about her," Albus tells Hugo. "I see it. She's unhappy somehow, but why?"

And to that, Hugo can only shake his head. "I have no idea."

* * *

One warm autumn evening, Hugo meets Franny's family, and by the end, he understands. Her mother, Emily Mayfair, greets him brightly at the door with a smile and a kiss on the cheek and the words, "So you're the closest thing that my Franny could get to a boyfriend." Hugo blinks at that and flicks a gaze towards his friend, who wears a resigned expression on her face.

Franny's sister, Leila, is a tall woman with a slightly pinched face. "Is it just the three of you?" he asks Franny as he helps her with the drinks tray in the kitchen.

"Yep," Franny says shortly. "Always has been."

Hugo gets the distinct impression that she has brought him to her house very much against her will, but his curiosity about people gets the better of him, and he stays for the entire evening.

"So?" Albus asks him the next day. "How were they?"

He, Hugo and Scorpius are perusing the new bookshop that has just opened in town, and Scorpius looks up over the top of the volume he is holding. "Well," Hugo says slowly. "Her mother was very nice to me."

"Well, that's good," Albus says, but at the same time, Scorpius asks –

"Was she nice to Franny?"

Hugo slides a glance at Scorpius, who looks as if he already knows the answer, then looks back to Albus. "When you screw something up in your life, your parents and James and Lily; they say something about it, right?" They both nod. "But in the end, they support you. They catch you when you fall. They build you back up."

"Isn't that their job?" Albus says with all the innocence of someone whose family does just that.

It cannot be said that Emily Mayfair has not done her parental duty – she has provided Franny with clothes and education and food and shelter and Hugo knows that in itself is a certain type of love. But there are things that Franny will never know. What it is to run home to your mother with failure or loss or a broken heart; how to trust that no matter how badly things go, there will always be family to go home to, and they will say things like  _don't worry_  and  _let's get an ice cream_ and  _everything will be alright in the end._

At the Mayfairs' dinner table the night before, Hugo had seen a strange sort of delight in Emily's face as she informed Hugo of a great many of Franny's shortcomings, as if they were entertaining stories. He thinks of Leila's snide comments, and how Franny had sat there with a forced smile and an ever-emptying wine glass. "I'm a writer," Hugo had told Emily, who beamed at him.

"Yes, I've heard from Franny. And a friend of mind has read your book." She, unlike her daughter, has only good things to say about the book. Although, as Albus points out to Hugo retrospectively, Emily hasn't read the book herself. "And are you working on anything new?"

"I've got a few things floating around," Hugo said with a smile. "But they're not quite book ideas yet."

They had talked for a little while about his career, about his inspirations, about his writing process. "Franny used to want to be an author," Emily told Hugo, who looked with great surprise at his friend.

"Journalist," she corrected her mother without meeting anyone's eye.

"Why didn't you?" Hugo asks Franny curiously, who shrugs half-heartedly.

"Oh, Franny's never been ambitious," Emily says, waving a hand. "She was good at school, but she's never aimed high. I've always thought it's what held her back."

Leila sniffed. "I never understood your thing for journalism," she told her sister. "Your head's all up in the clouds; it'd never work out."

Hugo had looked over at Franny. If those words had been stated in his family, punches would have been thrown, either verbal or physical. But Franny had only taken a bread roll and hummed non-committedly and offered Hugo some more wine.

Now, Hugo thinks of all the times his father has patted him on the shoulder; of the comfort that simple gesture brings him. The nights when he and Rose have sat awake in the kitchen, surrounded by the sacred hush of the midnight hours, talking through the issues that they can confide in nobody else. Of how his mother hugs him and tells him that she loves him, and that she is going to proud of him no matter what he does.

And he can see very well where the darkness in Franny has come from.

* * *

The new book is coming along surprisingly well. It does not rush out of him in huge waves like his first, but in a steadier and more streamlined manner. Hugo tapes a calendar up next to his desk, and props a corkboard up, and marks off his word count, and pins up pictures he likes and quotes relevant to the characters and photographs of his family.

Hugo likes to write at the dining table, which is surrounded on two sides by glass doors. There are always fresh flowers, courtesy of Louis' and Roxanne's constant tending to his garden, and he sits with his tea and his laptop and his notebook and his corkboard full of ideas and lets the words spiral through his fingers and onto the page.

Lots of people have asked him about the board; his parents, his sister, Dom, Fred, Molly, James, Kelly. "Is this where it all happens, then?" Lily asks as she sits perched in the chair at the head of the dining table, a book open on her knees. She is staring at a blurred photograph of herself, Victoire and Teddy.

"This is where it all happens."

She smiles at him. Ever since she came back from her travels, Lily has smiled differently. "So am I in this book?"

Hugo laughs. "None of you are," he tells her. "And all of you, as well."

Lily rolls her eyes. "Cryptic writers."

Kelly likes the board too, and spends some time perusing it every time she comes to the house. "I liked the most recent chapter," she says. "It's got excellent direction."

Hugo, who has never attended a writing lesson in his life, always nods when she uses terms like that. "Sure it does."

Kelly smiles at him and returns to the board, her eyes lingering on a photograph of a forest, with a girl's hair (it is Molly's) flickering just in sight, then moving down to a landscape of a shimmering crescent-moon beach, which partially obscures a piece of parchment on which Hugo has written out the Lewis Carroll quote: ' _Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'_

The characters in Hugo's new manuscript are starting to come into their own (which also means he is starting to lose his control over them) and they are showing their true colours and their best dresses, and their inevitably complicated family ties as well. "Kel," he says, and she makes a noise of acknowledgement without looking up. "You love your family, don't you?"

Now she straightens up, frowning. "What sort of a question is that?"

"Well," he says slowly. "I always seem to be writing the same thing, over and over. The same message, anyway." He looks down at his notebook, where he has just begun a draft of the next chapter. "Family, to me, is this big circle. And we go round and round and sometimes get so far away that we can't even see each other, but we find our way back in the end."

"Yes?" Kelly says.

Hugo sighs. He and Franny have not spoken about her family since the night that he met them, but they are a train of thought he often boards in his spare time. "What if all families aren't like that?"

Kelly sits down, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I don't suppose all families  _are_  like that."

"Why not?"

Kelly makes a face at him. "What do you mean,  _why not_? Because not all  _people_  are like that, silly." Hugo concedes this point, and takes a drink of tea, then, because it is still weighs on his mind, relays the story of Franny's family to her. The thoughtful expression returns to Kelly's face.

"I asked her once whether she loves her family," Hugo tells her.

Kelly's eyebrows lift and she says sarcastically, "I bet she took that really well."

"Nope," Hugo says. "She was pretty offended, actually." Kelly snorts. "But the way they behave towards each other – that's love, but it's not a very good love, is it?"

Kelly says nothing for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't know if it's good or not good, but it certainly is different."

Hugo breathes out and shifts his position so that he is facing her. "I always thought my family was unusual; our lives, the way we've been raised-"

"Your family  _is_ unusual," Kelly interrupts him. "Of course you're unusual. Your mother's the Minister for Magic. Since there's only one of her, that is by definition, unusual. You've lost people and you've added people and that's made you all band together for sure." She shrugs. "But you're the same as everyone else too, in all the good ways. All that stuff you write about – how your family is always there for you, and how they're your harshest critics and your biggest supporters and your mirror, and your magnifying glass – that is all real." She laughs. "Why do you think your book's so successful? People see you in it, but they see themselves as well. You're not the exception here," she tells him, and for some reason, that comforts him. "Your friend's family is the exception. For once, your family is the norm."

"And thank Merlin for that," Hugo murmurs.

* * *

_8:17 am [Franny]_

_Want to get lunch?_

_8:20 am [Hugo]_

_I'm doing a book signing. 10-12. After that?_

_8:21 am_ _[Franny]_

_[thumbs up] Sounds good. Meet you bookstore?_

_8:24 am_ _[Hugo]_

_Yes! Rose & Lily are coming to drop off some stuff that I left at Rose's yesterday but after that is good?_

_11:45 am_ _[Franny]_

_I'm outside. Shall I come in and see you in action? I can wait outside._

Hugo asks a bookstore employee to go out and bring Franny inside, and shifts over so that she has a chair next to him to sit on. "You can keep the line entertained," he tells her and laughs as she rolls her eyes at him, and adds, "I'm nearly done."

There are a few more people in the line; they introduce themselves and tell him they love the book and ask him when he is going to publish another book. "Oh, it's in the works," he says to them, penning brief messages to them and signing his name.  _Hugo Granger-Weasley_  means something very different in the muggle world compared to the Wizarding world, but in both, it is beginning to be synonymous with  _author_.

When the last reader has left, Hugo sits back in his chair and looks across the bookshop. Rose and Lily are stood by the door, chatting to each other. Rose waves at him from the doorway cheerfully, and at Franny, who lifts a hand in response. "Shall we go?"

Hugo shakes his head at Franny's question. "Not yet." And he slides another copy of the book off the small stack next to him. "In a minute."

And writes, as Franny leans over his shoulder curiously,

_Frances Mayfair:_

_As C.S. Lewis writes in his own dedication, some day you will be old enough to start reading fairytales again. But, even though I am sure that he is correct, this is not a fairytale._

_This is the story of my family. It is the story of my parents, my sister, my cousins. It's the story of me._

_I hope it helps you better understand my life. Perhaps if you read it again, you will have a different outlook. Either way, I appreciate your opinion, always. Thank you for your honesty, and everything else._

_I remain,_

_Your affectionate friend,_

_Hugo Granger-Weasley_

Franny takes the proffered book, reads the inscription, reads the blurb again, then looks up, her dark eyes wide. "So when I said that it wasn't very real-"

"Yeah," Hugo says, pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves.

Franny's eyes are suspiciously shiny and she reads the inscription once more. "Well," she says, "You love them very much. I can tell."

Hugo shrugs. "I'd do anything for them."

She looks at him. "To say such a thing so casually."

Hugo smiles and clasps his hands together. "It's always been that way."

She glances down at the book. "They're very messy, though."

"Oh, yes," he says at once. "Messy is hardly a strong enough word. Dysfunctional and flawed and unfixable. They say and do things that they shouldn't. They're infuriating and impulsive and wild and some of them are downright crazy. Not to mention they're all really,  _really_  terrible at board games." She laughs. He shrugs again. "But so is everyone's family."

Her eyes widen. "But this is about  _your_  family."

Hugo shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he tells her, and finds that he is saying it somewhat urgently. More than anything, he would like Franny to know that her family is the exception, and his the norm. Not the other way around. "The names don't matter. This might be about the people in my family, but it's the story of every family – at least, the way that families should be."

Franny looks slightly wistful. "The way families should be," she repeats.

He feels the need to elaborate. "Disruptive and confused and rough around the edges." Hugo looks to his right. Rose is standing alone in the doorway, and Lily is smoking outside as they wait for him. Rose grins at him as they lock eyes. "But unconditional too," he says.

Franny looks like she has nothing left to say but as Hugo is gathering his things, she speaks again. "What I would give in this world," she says quietly, "to be so loved."

* * *

After she had read the draft of his book, Victoire had come to talk to him about it. Hugo had been most afraid of her reaction, for he knew how fiercely she protected the family. "So? What do you think?"

She had taken him into her arms. "It's so beautiful, Hugo. It's beautiful."

That had been blessing enough for him, and he had hugged her back gladly, and full of joy. "Do you really think so?"

When Victoire pulled away, her eyes had been wet with tears. "You made us all seem so brave – like warriors. But so real as well."

Hugo had squeezed her arm. "That  _is_  real."

"I'm glad you see us that way," Victoire said with a watery laugh. "And you show all the different ways that we fight our battles, which I'm glad of as well. The way you tell about how each of us puts ourselves and our beliefs out into the world –" She breaks off and shakes her head, and repeats, "It's beautiful."

Hugo had remembered that, and still remembers that. At the time, he had nodded. "Well, this family's made up of fighters. Always has been. And one writer, I suppose."

Victoire had looked at him with her lightning-sharp gaze and, understanding immediately, said, "You're a fighter too, Hugo."

Hugo had laughed, not bitterly, but truthfully. He couldn't remember the last time that he had lost his temper. "Not like the rest of you. You're all fire and fury and sparkle and lightning. I don't have anything like that to fight with, or to paint my beliefs onto the universe."

And then Victoire had said something that he remembers even better, to this day, and holds in his heart. "Don't be ridiculous. You might not have a bark, or the temper to match, but you can paint the universe with the best of them." She looked seriously at him. "After all, you have a pen, don't you?" And Hugo had blinked at her, the enormity of her words crashing down on him and molding a smile on his face and in his eyes.

It was true; he did have a pen. A pen could trace ink onto the page, and across street signs and billboards and shop doorways and paper trails. It could write names and faces, and leave stains on clothes and fingers and the very fabrics of peoples' lives, for good and for evil. Victoire wiped at her face again; her hand came away wet with tears and she used it to give him a joking salute. "Mightier than the sword," she had said to him.

And he had repeated in a quieter, dreamier voice, "Mightier than the sword."

* * *

Hugo Weasley has a pen, and he uses it to paint the universe. He draws outlines of what he believes are the most important things in life – good health, a home, inner peace. He writes onto every surface the value of compassion, forgiveness, understanding; for those are the things his parents hold most dear in life.

He traces something that he knows is not always the case, that he is always grateful for, and that he is forever trying to understand; the circle of family (at least, how it should be), always turning and turning and turning, and coming back again; into every piece that he ever writes.

And always, always, always, he paints the names of his kin into the very stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending the first.
> 
> (An epilogue will follow very shortly, which details briefly what happens to each member of the family, but this is the last of my long contributions to the Potter/Weasley family Next Generation.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! (And please also review.)


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